


Black Sepia

by bladespark



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gay Pride, M/M, Poetry, Queer Themes, Seven Deadly Sins, Slice of Life, Touch-Starved, Wingfic, Wings, cw: gabriel, preening, stealing tags from other authors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladespark/pseuds/bladespark
Summary: Angels, like all winged things, need to occasionally molt, shedding their old feathers to grow new ones.  This is an annoying process which tends to make them snappish.  But when Aziraphale goes into his first molt after the Apocalypse that wasn't, it's a bit different than any other molt he's ever had, and he gets more than merely snappish.Or in other words, Aziraphale Falls, one feather, one sin, at a time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My latest fic! It's a bit wandering. I started with the idea for a concise story entirely focused on wings in the context of molting and Aziraphale's Fall, but then I thought about the fussy ex-angel deciding that he really should check off all seven of the Seven Deadly Sins, and a bunch of other miscellaneous ideas turned up, including some queer stuff, and just... It's a thing. I don't know how coherent it is, but I loved every minute writing it. The rough draft is all done (and up on Patreon) so I'll be editing up and posting chapters a couple of times a week until it's all there.
> 
> P.S. I'm trying footnotes for the first time in this one. Forgive me if I fuck them up a bunch.

“Here, try some of this, angel” Crowley passed the tiny little sake cup over to Aziraphale, and their fingers brushed as the angel took it.

Aziraphale didn’t even flinch, though as always, burning, hellish pain seared through him at the contact. He only smiled and raised the cup to his lips. “Oh, I say, that is nice. Something a bit herbal in it. Juniper?”

“Cedar, I think, says it was finished in cedar barrels.”

“How delightful. Here, you can have it back now.” He held the cup out to Crowley, who shook his head.

“Nah, ‘s fine, angel. I’ve got more.” He gestured at the flight of little sake cups lined up neatly before him. Aziraphale had just the one, though he also had a massive platter of assorted nigiri, while Crowley was picking at a single serving of scallops.

Aziraphale nodded and took another sip, wondering in the back of his mind if Crowley really had decided he didn’t want the rest of the sake, or if he merely didn’t want to risk touching Aziraphale again so soon. 

The angel could remember every single time he and Crowley had touched, since horrible pain was an excellent memory aid. The earliest times had been startling, making both parties flinch and swear to never forget themselves and touch again. But over the centuries they inevitably had, and at some point the pain had stopped mattering all that much, somehow.

Minds being the illogical and impractical things they were, though, Aziraphale frequently pictured doing quite a lot more than simply touching. His frustration at how unreachable those fantasies were had only served to further cement those tiny scraps of physical contact that he _had_ gotten in his memory. He wasn’t sure when the fantasies had started, really, they’d crept in bit by bit, but certainly for the last few hundred years, whenever he touched Crowley he was tormented by images of things he could never have. And during his rather rare dalliances with some interesting mortal, he found his mind inevitably drifting to thoughts about a certain demon rather than the human he was actually with.

But “demon” was the problem, of course. Celestial and infernal natures simply didn’t mix. Just the faintest brush of skin on skin was agony. Aziraphale suspected that trying to kiss would probably discorporate one or both of them. Probably Crowley, and possibly permanently, which was one large reason why he hadn’t succumbed to his fantasies and tried it anyway. He suspected that his saliva probably constituted holy water, and he couldn’t risk it. He could ignore the pain of brief contact, but he couldn’t risk actually hurting Crowley.

They’d never done more than brush fingers together, save for in the events surrounding the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. There had been an improbable bus ride, when they’d held hands for a few blissful, blistering seconds, unable to keep from wanting the contact, however terrible it might be. And they had held hands again to swap corporations, which had been fiddly business, trying to switch their bodies around without letting celestial or infernal energies come into contact.1

Touching was simply not something angels and demons were meant to do.

Aziraphale knew the demon felt something for him, of course. He could sense when a being was loved just as well as when a place was loved, and so he knew that Crowley had been slowly falling in love with him down through the centuries. Early on he’d pushed it aside as something wrong and aberrant, something an good and righteous angel could never possibly return, but eventually he’d realized that he _did_ return it, and since the end of the world some ten months past he had started to think that it might even be _safe_ to return it. What use was that, though, when they could barely brush their hands together? They were best friends, weren’t they? That was as close as they could be. Even if he someday declared his love for Crowley and let the demon declare his aloud in turn, they couldn’t behave as lovers. It was easier to let any notions of “love” lie unspoken.

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice made Aziraphale realize that he’d been sitting there, sake cup in hand, not touching his sushi for some time. “Oh, sorry, my dear. Just woolgathering. Did you say something?”

“Nothing important. Want a scallop?” Crowley held out the little bundle of seaweed and seafood in his chopsticks, and Aziraphale opened his mouth and let the demon put it in, the chopsticks keeping them both safe. Aziraphale pushed the thought of how lovely it would be to have Crowley feed him by hand for perhaps the ten thousandth time and turned his mind to the flavors dancing across his tongue as he chewed.

“Simply delicious. Thank you, my dear.”

“‘S no trouble, angel,” Crowley replied, smiling, and they went on just as they had for literal ages, sitting side by side, not quite touching.

****

Aziraphale said goodnight through the open car door, and then Crowley was zooming off into the London night. At least at this hour he was marginally less likely to hit somebody. Aziraphale turned and went into the bookshop. Inside he considered a cup of tea, or cocoa, but his stomach was still stuffed with sushi and sake, and he decided he didn’t feel like miracling the pleasantly full sensation away, but that adding anything further would probably push it past pleasant into unpleasant.

So he pulled out a book from a stack beside the register that was his personal “to read” stack and settled into a comfortable chair to begin passing the night.

He’d barely turned a page when he noticed an itch, immaterial but intense, hovering just behind his shoulderblades, and sighed deeply. He’d been a little itchy yesterday too, and had hoped some momentary ethereal wind had just ruffled his feathers, but the persistence and increasing intensity of it meant that he was beginning to molt. The longer he ignored the itching, the worse it would get. Right now it had already blossomed into something that was actually painful, a little burning speck at the core of a larger itch on each wing that was utterly maddening.

Giving in to the inevitable, Aziraphale scooted forward in the chair and manifested his wings. They both itched terribly along the upper “arm”, where the small coverts lay. He pulled one wing forward and scratched luxuriously, then sighed as he saw several little feathers drop free. Definitely molting.

Despite all the scratching, though, the speck of pain wasn’t easing.

Aziraphale frowned, combing his fingers through his feathers over the spot. He felt the hard point of a pinfeather pushing through the delicate skin beneath its protective layer, and the pain was centered there. It didn’t even feel like an itch anymore, it felt like something burning, like the pinfeather was an actual pin, red hot and being poked into his skin. Had it somehow gotten infected? He wasn’t sure that was possible, but something was definitely wrong. He parted his feathers with his fingers to look at the spot, and sucked in an immediate shocked gasp.

He knew what pinfeathers looked like coming in, they were basically feather shafts, hard little points flushed with blood for growth that would develop feather barbs as they grew. This was definitely a pinfeather, a narrow barb pushing up through the skin, but where every other pinfeather Aziraphale had ever grown had been translucently pink, his white coloration showing the blood within, this one was opaque and jet black.

He checked the other wing, since pinfeathers always grew in pairs, and found the other painful itch had a second pointed black nub at the heart of it as well.

Demon’s feathers.

Demon’s feathers that burned against his skin with all the hellish fire of Crowley’s touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If they’d tried to pour their souls across, the both of them would probably have gone up like fireworks, but pulling the fleshy corporations from one soul to the other had only led to an all-over stinging from the inevitable residue of the body’s former inhabitant. Back


	2. Chapter 2

The phone was ringing.

Aziraphale blearily lifted his head and looked at the old-fashioned phone on his desk, then let it drop again. It would be Crowley, and he had no idea how to talk to Crowley right now. He was much too drunk to talk to Crowley right now. He was also much too demonic. What was he even going to say? “Hello, old chap, care to show me around Downstairs? Going to have to get used to it there, now.”

The angel’s drunken mind suddenly managed to realize that if he didn’t answer the phone Crowley was likely to come over and check on him. He lurched to his feet and more or less fell over onto the desk, but by the time he got the handset to his ear Crowley had hung up.

“Damn it,” muttered Aziraphale, then shuddered. Damn it indeed.

With a feeling of looming doom that was somehow already even greater—and also much more immediate—than the one that had driven him to down the better part of a case of a lovely Bordeaux he’d been saving for several decades, Aziraphale stumbled around the bookshop, trying to decide what to do. He almost immediately tripped over a throw rug and lay sprawled on his back, wings splayed out around him. His mind wobbled and lurched around in a drunken panic, but his body was apparently content to lie on the rug looking up at the ceiling above. Morning light was filtering in through the windows, and he should be getting ready to open the shop but he wasn’t up for doing that, wasn’t up for doing anything, was definitely not up for dealing with Crowley right now and oh dear _Lord_ there was the unmistakable rumble of the Bentley’s engine outside _already_.

Another lurch of panic went through him, and he vanished his wings. That was probably irrational, given that you’d have to really look to see the tiny black pinfeathers, but he didn’t want Crowley to see them. He didn’t want them to be there at all, though even vanished he could still feel them. More had sprouted during the night, so there was a stippling of tiny pinprick pains across his wings. If Crowley knew about them they’d be just that much more real, and he knew that was irrational and probably drunken logic, but he didn’t care, he couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t deal with Crowley, couldn’t—

“Hello?” The door, that had definitely been locked, swung open and Crowley stepped inside. “Was thinking of a spot of breakfast at that nice little cafe around the corner. Hello, angel?” It took Crowley a moment to notice Aziraphale, between how much dimmer the shop was than outside, and how crowded and cluttered it was towards the front, while the rug the angel was lying sprawled on was in the back room, but moments later he was kneeling at Aziraphale’s side, hands hovering as if he wanted to touch, but keeping an inch or two of space between them all the same. “Angel? You alright?”

“‘M drunk,” slurred Aziraphale, staring up at Crowley.

Crowley blinked at him. “You’re drunk, at 8am on a Wednesday?”

“Seemed like a good idea ‘bout eleven last night.”

“You’ve been drunk for nine hours.”

“You can do the numbers! How good of you,” slurred Aziraphale, desperately trying to veer the conversation anywhere but the inevitable “why” that was sure to erupt from Crowley’s lips any second now. “Have you always been good at maths?”

“Angel…”

_Not anymore_, thought Aziraphale, and Crowley wavered above him as his eyes filled with tears.

Crowley reached out as if he wanted to wipe them, and Aziraphale slapped his hand away, hard. “Bloody idiot! You know an angel’s tears are holy water!”

An angel’s tears. Good Lord. Or not, not anymore, but how much did that matter, given the nature of the silver lining to this demonic cloud?

The shock of realization that was thrumming through him was nearly enough to sober Aziraphale up in and of itself, but he sat up and snapped his fingers to render himself completely sober all the same. He needed to be able to actually _think_ about the thing that had suddenly danced into his mind. Though he wanted to get up and dance himself. Maybe he would finally learn something other than the gavotte.

“Aziraphale. What’s wrong?” Crowley was still hovering, kneeling next to Crowley, though he was keeping his hands carefully at his sides now.

Angels’ tears were holy, angels’ skin was holy, angels’ feathers were holy, all of it was, all of it untouchable for Crowley, and Crowley just as untouchable for him, except now, now that Aziraphale was Falling…

He sat up, suddenly smiling radiantly, as the end of six thousand years of pent up frustrations loomed on the horizon like the rising sun itself. “Oh sweet saints above. Beautiful demons below. Wonderful, wonderful earth here that made me do it. I could just kiss you, Crowley. I _will_ be able to just kiss you! Not yet, not yet, but soon.”

“Uh, angel, what are you going on about?”

Aziraphale snapped his wings back into existence and flourished them at Crowley, feeling absurdly giddy despite having gotten rid of the wine. “Not an angel any more, my dear, or not for much longer, at least.” He folded the white feathers in, brow creasing and added, “Let’s see, a full molt usually takes about a month, though I suppose this one may not be exactly normal, but the pinfeathers seem to be perfectly usual other than the color, so I think it’s likely. I suppose it’s probably going to be fairly unpleasant for a bit, given the way the first ones sting, but really, just one month isn’t going to be that bad, and then, why then there’s eternity after that.”

Crowley sucked in a sudden breath. Then he whipped off his shades and stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes as what he was saying sunk in. “Ang— Aziraphale, are you saying…?”

“I’m Falling, my dear. Not all at once, not the way it was back then, but I’ve started a new molt, and the feathers are coming in black and, er, demonic.”

“D-demonic?”

Aziraphale nodded, his giddy excitement sobered by the horrified expression on Crowley’s face. “They, well, they burn, rather the way touching you always has. Except of course they’re rather attached.”

“Oh angel,” said Crowley, his voice full of pain, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” said Aziraphale firmly, and he began to pick himself up off the floor.

Crowley, still kneeling, blinked up at him. “You’re not? But…”

“I’m Falling, yes. I’m sure it’s going to be quite unpleasant. But Crowley, dearest… This is my punishment for daring to defy Heaven and try to save the world. If I hadn’t done that, then I might well be up in a triumphant Heaven right now, surrounded by angels celebrating the extinction of demons and the total devastation of everything I’ve ever truly loved. Or if your side had won, I’d be dead, and you’d be down in Hell with a million cavorting demons, alone. If I had it all to do over again, I’d do just the same. And, well, don’t you see?”

“See?” Crowley picked himself up too, rather unsteadily.

“Here, I think we both could use a good, stiff drink.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and a bottle of quite nice brandy appeared on the table beside him, along with two snifters. He frowned for a moment. “Wonder how well that’s going to work as this goes on? Going to lose the ability to do miracles proper, no doubt. You should tell me how it works for you.”

“Angel, how can you be so, so, so…”

“Calm? Excited, even?”

“Yes! You’re _Falling!_ It’s bloody awful, I should know!”

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you do, Nevertheless, I’m rather pleased now that certain things have become clear to me. Here.” He pressed a snifter full of brandy in Crowley’s hand, almost savoring the burn of the demon’s fingers against his own as he did, then folded his wings away and folded himself into a comfortable chair next to the table with the bottle on it. He snagged his own filled snifter and took an indulgent sip. “Ah, that’s just lovely. That won’t be changing, I suspect.”

Crowley, looking endearingly confused, sat down in his own chair across from Aziraphale and took a rather healthy slug of his drink. “So what is it that I’m supposed to see?” said Crowley, rather shortly, when he’d swallowed.

“We’ve both put rather a lot of effort over the years into keeping a certain distance. Some of it has been trying to stay out of trouble, trying to not get caught…fraternizing.” He gave Crowley an apologetic smile. “I’ve been rather more fussed about that that you, admittedly. But demons can fraternize with other demons all they want, can’t they?”

Crowley drew in a sudden breath. “Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“I mean… ‘S usually just a matter of mutual using, with demons, but…”

“But with us it wouldn’t be, would it?” Aziraphale reached out and brushed his fingertips ever so gently across the back of Crowley’s hand, daring that much for now. He felt the pain of it still, and saw Crowley twitch, but he also saw Crowley’s eyes light with the realization of all that was now possible.

“You see? When it’s done, that won’t hurt anymore. We can touch. We can do more than touch. My tears won’t be holy water. My, ah, other bodily fluids won’t be either. So we can even engage in intercourse, if you’re so inclined.”

Crowley had just taken another large gulp of brandy, so the spray when he spit it out was sufficient to spatter a few drops on Aziraphale on the far side of the table. Crowley sat there choking and hacking, and Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, he began to laugh.

“Angel!”

With another laugh, accompanied by a shocking feeling of freedom, Aziraphale said slyly, “Does that mean you’re not so inclined?” He’d had such thoughts so many times, but he’d never dared voice them. He’d tried to stuff them down and not even think them. Now, though, what reason was there to hold to “proper” behavior, to keep an angelic decorum?

“_Angel!_” Crowley sounded completely scandalized, and Aziraphale doubled over laughing, his wings shaking with it.

Aziraphale managed to suck in a breath in between gales of laughter, and gasped out, “Alas, I am bereft, denied sexual satisfaction.”

Crowley sputtered, rendered completely speechless, and Aziraphale was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

When the pair of them had finally regained their composure, Crowley managed, “I can’t believe I just heard you saying that.”

“I hardly can either. It has me almost giddy!”

“You’re sure you sobered yourself back up again, there?” Crowley’s eyebrows quirked up in amusement.

That prompted another—if briefer—cascade of laughter from Aziraphale. “Oh Crowley. I’ve been living for thousands upon thousands of years in a box of righteousness, hemmed in by a constant worry about doing the right thing, not sinning, not being seen to deviate from the Great Plan. Suddenly it’s all gone, and I feel like I could do anything! I was so afraid of Falling, and for what? For the first time since the War in Heaven, I feel _free!_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant to post this tomorrow, but eh. People were so excited about the first chapter! So I got this one edited up and here it is.
> 
> The final line of this chapter was when I realized that this story was going to be a little longer and a little more involved than my initial concept for it, because it wasn't going to be _just_ about Crowley and Aziraphale being able to finally cuddle and kiss, it was also going to be about Aziraphale shaking off his fear of sin. As a person who was raised strictly religious (and was a devout believer in every stupid little nit-picky rule) and then later chucked large chunks of it, mostly about said rules, out the window, I realized I had things to say about what it's like to realize you can "sin" and it's okay.
> 
> I've written one about that sort of thing already, but there's a lot more in there, I suspect. :3 This one should be mostly fun and not preachy, though, don't worry! 
> 
> (P.S. if anybody ever wants to beta read my Good Omens stuff, I could use somebody. Both for catching typos, and for helping me keep my wandering sentence structure coherent. And for story/plot coherence too, for that matter. Right now I'm just editing it myself.)


	3. Chapter 3

“Honestly, angel, I’d say you rather have gluttony under your belt by now.” Crowley smiled as he sat beside Aziraphale at yet another interesting little restaurant, where the two were having dinner.

“I thought I’d start out easy, since it’s only a few pinfeathers so far,” said Aziraphale with a dismissive wave. “But if I’m going to be a demon, I’m going to do it _properly_.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up in amusement at Aziraphale’s prim tone. Proper demons were hardly prim, but Aziraphale was Aziraphale, and apparently a little thing like falling from grace wasn’t going to change that. “Ticking off the seven deadlies isn’t actually a requirement, as such.”

“Oh, I know. Nevertheless, it seems like I really should at least give them all a try. But today I mostly just wanted to get out of the bookshop. Molting always makes me a bit tetchy, even without all this extra bother.” It had been two days since he’d found those first two pinfeathers, and they’d been followed by quite a few others, including several of his larger primary coverts. None of the primaries or secondaries proper, yet, but he was well into the molt, shedding feathers constantly, and it was even odds which was worse, the pinpoint burns of demonic feathers scattered symmetrically on each wing, or the abominable itching that completely covered them both.

“But while I’m out,” added the no-longer-entirely-angel, “I might as well see what this sinning business is all about. I fully intend to order more food than I will actually want, stuff myself until I’m sick, and _leave_ some of it.” Aziraphale grinned wickedly, feeling giddy with the very thought. “I always resisted ordering everything that sounded good on the menu, because it would be sinful to let food go to waste when people are starving, but that’s actually rather silly to care about, isn’t it?”

Crowley chuckled. “Your self-abnegation wouldn’t give the hungry a single bite.”

“Not really. Like quite a lot of ‘righteous’ behavior, it’s about reassuring yourself, or about public appearance, not about actually doing good. If I want to do something about hunger, I need to feed somebody hungry, or at least make a donation to a food bank, or somesuch. Abstaining personally accomplishes nothing but make me feel righteous. So why bother?” Aziraphale’s eyes slid over the menu in a manner that could indeed be called “gluttonous”, and he tallied up the list of things he wanted. This was a Thai restaurant, and he was ever so fond of Pad Thai, but he intended to also get Panang, his favorite curry, and at least two other kinds of curry, for he’d never gotten around to the avocado green curry, and he had no idea what in the world “Gang Puck” even was. It might be a delight he’d been missing out on, or it might be terrible and he’d have to leave it uneaten, and if that happened, he didn’t have to care anymore, so he was going to go ahead and get it.

Crowley smiled indulgently while the waiter came and went with Aziraphale’s completely ridiculous order. He himself had ordered nothing but a drink, not even his usual nod towards pretending to eat, but given the six dishes the waiter had scribbled down on his pad for Aziraphale, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble if he wanted to have a bite or two.

“So how is it, ah, going?” asked Crowley, cringing at the awkwardness of the question even as the last word was leaving his mouth.

Aziraphale shrugged. “For now it’s not much worse than any molt. The itching is bothering me more than the black feathers are. I expect it’ll get worse.” He paused, then added, “Once the flight feathers start coming in I expect it to get downright agonizing. But eventually it’ll be over with.” He smiled at Crowley. “I’m rather looking forward to what I hope will come after that.”

“Angel…” Crowley halted, his expression pained, even behind his dark glasses. “I guess I can’t call you that anymore.”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable pet name, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled warmly at him.

Crowley’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “I suppose.”

“You _are_ my dear, you know. I tend to rather spread terms of endearment about, but you’re the only one where I mean them in _that_ way. I’ve been a bit of a git, trying to pretend your ‘dear’ was just like anybody else’s all this time. It never was, not even a little.”

“Oh angel…”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s a good thing I don’t mind the ‘angel’, either, because I’m not sure you could stop doing it.”

“Ang—! Aziraphale!” Crowley scowled at him, and Aziraphale grinned back. He still couldn’t get over how free he felt. He could do or say _anything_, anything at all, and if any of it turned out to be bad, then that was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. And if any of it turned out to be good, well, he didn’t mind that either. Declaration about the seven deadly sins aside, he had no intention of trying to be a “proper” demon. He could do what felt right to _him_ and not what Gabriel or Michael or anybody else expected of him.

It felt like stretching his wings out after keeping them hidden and folded away for centuries.

It felt _wonderful_.

Even without Crowley, even without all the rest of it, he was starting to wonder if Falling was really all that bad.

Of course he hadn’t been down to Hell yet, or dealt with any demons other than the usual one. Crowley had said some things that suggested there were costs to Falling besides the pain in his wings.

Still, as the waiter arrived and began filling the table with platters of mouth-watering food, Aziraphale still thought that Falling was proving to be much nicer than he could possibly have anticipated.

****

Aziraphale sat on the couch at the back of his shop and whimpered quietly. His wings were out, spread untidily across the couch, because the phantom pain when he had them folded away was paradoxically worse than the real pain when they actually existed.

They were visibly mottled now, though still more white than black. But plenty of the smaller feathers had finished growing and sat there, dark and glossy. There were gaps in his primaries now, too, where ebony pinfeathers were lengthening every day, and the pain where the shafts met skin was indescribable agony. It was like having a red-hot poker pressed against him, but a real poker would have seared the nerves out eventually. This never stopped, it just went on and on and on.

He hadn’t opened the shop in days. He had managed to drag himself out to get a pastry yesterday morning, but the pain made it hard to think, hard to act normally, hard to do anything at all but lie here and whimper softly. It even made it nearly impossible to concentrate on reading, which left him with nothing to do but feel.

Another whimper escaped him. His throat felt raw. There had been screaming earlier, not even so much in pain as in futile frustration at the fact that it never stopped, never relented, never eased. There were tears in his eyes, suddenly, and he felt completely pathetic. Lying here weeping, doing nothing, when nothing was actually _wrong_ with him, other than how his wings ached. It wasn’t as though his leg was broken or he was actually ill. And yet he was too pathetically overcome to even get up and make a cup of cocoa.

He heard the shop door open, and since he was certain he’d left it locked, his heart jumped. Only one person was likely to be opening that door without a key. A moment later Crowley came into sight around a bookshelf.

“Angel,” he said, going instantly to the side of the couch and kneeling there, hovering again, obviously wanting to touch and not daring.

Aziraphale tried to gather himself together. “Hullo there.”

“How are you doing?” asked Crowley gently.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Hurts like the dickens. There’s two pairs of primaries coming in now, one set’s nearly done, even. It’s going to look deucedly odd for a while, all piebald like that.” He frowned faintly, managing to come up with a thought through the haze.

“Oh bother.”

“What is it?” Crowley sounded alarmed.

“I’m going to have to do something truly terrible.”

“What?” Crowley looked alarmed too.

“They say that everything looks good with black, but it just isn’t true. You can’t just drape a swathe of black behind all that tan and cream and call it stylish.” He heaved a deep sigh, almost distracted from the pain for a moment. “I shall have to update my wardrobe.”

Crowley’s expression froze, then— “Ha!” Crowley grinned broadly and fist-pumped. “Yes! Tell me you’ll let me take you clothes shopping, angel, please?”

“You don’t go clothes shopping. I know perfectly well that you miracle all your clothes.”

“I do too go shopping, I just don’t buy. How would I know what was in style if I didn’t go see what people were selling these days? Although I’m shocked you won’t just carry on with all that tatty beige. You, caring about being fashionable? And it’s not as if anybody will be seeing your wings clashing, you hardly keep them out.”

Aziraphale managed a weak chuckle. “Would _you_ be caught dead wearing something that would look bad with your wings out?”

“Well, no… But still, you? Fashion?”

“I have an impeccable sense of fashion, thank you very much,” said Aziraphale putting on an offended air. “I merely do not concern myself with what’s _trendy_, only with what’s actually stylish.”

“Only with what’s eighty years out of date, you mean.” Crowley looked him up and down, though now wasn’t really an ideal time to comment on Aziraphale’s fashion sense, as he was wearing a robe and slippers. Admittedly, they were also every bit as old-fashioned as the rest of his wardrobe.

“True style is timeless,” huffed Aziraphale, but he smiled as he said it. Having Crowley here was a far better anodyne to pain than anything else he’d tried, including somewhat reckless amounts of over the counter painkillers, and equally reckless amounts of alcohol. Though he hadn’t been so _insanely_ reckless as to do both of those together.2

Nothing could do more than blunt the edge of the pain, though, and he could hardly turn up at a doctor’s and go “My wings are burning with demonic hellfire” and get a prescription for something stronger.

It wasn’t that Crowley made it hurt less, but he distracted Aziraphale, kept him from dwelling on it, took his mind elsewhere, even if the searing fire of it kept yanking his mind back.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get for you?” Crowley was still hovering, an anxious edge to him, obviously frustrated by how little he could do to help.

“I could just about kill for a cup of cocoa right now,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley shot to his feet.

“Right, good, I’ll just… Er…” He looked around. He’d been to the shop many times, but he didn’t drink cocoa and Aziraphale had always made his own until now.

“In the kitchenette, through there. Cupboard right above the stove. You can just microwave the milk, two minutes, and stir the mix in.” Giving the instructions, Aziraphale felt pathetic all over again. It was the simplest thing in the world, just walk a dozen steps, get out cup, milk, and cocoa, then heat and stir. It took less than three minutes for the entire process, including the walking, and yet he hadn’t done it. He’d just lain here, being a sad sack.

All the same, when Crowley brought him the cocoa, he felt a little better. Their fingers brushed as Crowley passed over the mug, and it still burned, but what was that, against the continual agony he was feeling right now? He almost wanted to hold Crowley’s hand for a while, and might have reached out and taken it if not for the knowledge that he’d be hurting Crowley too.

Aziraphale sipped, letting his eyes slide half-closed, and Crowley sat on the floor, leaning against the couch in that way he had, as if his body still knew more about being a snake than about being anything like human. The dim amber light of the sun coming in through dusty windows at the front of the shop was just enough to show the red of his hair, and for no doubt the millionth time Aziraphale ached to run his fingers all through it.

Go- Sa- Fucking Somebody, everything about his life was torture right now.

_You just have to get through the molt_, he told himself. Just a few weeks. _A few weeks of constant torture that’s only going to get worse._ What would it feel like when all the flight feathers had come in? There were twenty on each wing. Forty red-hot pokers stabbing him all the time. But surely when it reached that point it would be over? Crowley wasn’t in pain from his wings all the time. Surely when the last one came in, it would be done with?

_Surely, so that means you only have to suffer through feeling thirty-eight red-hot pokers_, he found himself thinking sarcastically at himself.

He took another sip of cocoa and tried to relax and push the terror that thought caused out of his mind. Just the four was already nearly unbearable, but what could he do? There was no stopping this, there was only enduring it. He’d get through it somehow, though he didn’t know how.

“Crowley?” he found himself saying.

“Hmm?”

“What was it like when you, you know, Fell?”

“Not like this,” said Crowley softly. “It was… I don’t know.” He tipped his head back against the couch. “I jumped, you know. I make a joke about sauntering on down, sometimes, but there’s some truth in it. Most of the Fallen were cast down after Lucifer. I saw the Hosts of Heaven coming at me, and I saw that we’d lost, and bugger if I was going to give them the satisfaction of pushing me out of Heaven. So I stepped off myself and Fell. The Falling was…I don’t know. Space didn’t work the way it does now, then. Time didn’t either. It might have taken a century, it might have been about ten minutes. My wings burned all the way down though, every feather of them. By the time I reached Hell it was done with, and it didn’t hurt, except…”

He heaved a deep sigh and was silent for a long time.

“Except?” said Aziraphale gently.

“Except the other kind of hurt.” Crowley put his hand over his chest. “I didn’t set out to be on the wrong side of a war, I just wanted to know _why_. They wouldn’t let you choose your own sides, though, they just started smiting all the angels who were ‘rebelling.’ I was doomed to fall the moment I started asking questions.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Aziraphale softly.

Crowley shrugged. “I wouldn’t go back to Heaven if you paid me. So it’s just as well.”

“Don’t think I would either,” said Aziraphale. The cocoa cup was empty, and Crowley fell silent. It was the kind of silence that often stretched between them, a comfortable sort of silence. Yet in it, Aziraphale once again found himself focusing on the intense pain he felt, and his wings trembled. He wanted to weep again. He wanted to scream again. How could he continue to endure this?

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?” said the demon again, tipping his head back against the couch to look up at Aziraphale upside down.

“Would it be… Would it be cowardly of me to ask if you could put me to sleep for a while? I’m not sure I can handle weeks more like this. I’m not very good at sleeping. But if you did it for me…”

“Oh, angel. Not cowardly at all, only sensible. Nobody wants to be in pain.” He smiled suddenly. “Anyway, you’d be checking sloth off the list of sins, right? Sleeping for weeks.”

Aziraphale managed a chuckle. “Oh, yes, of course. Very demonic of me, then.”

“Very,” said Crowley with a nod. He glanced around the space at the back of the shop. “Why don’t you get yourself comfortable? Do you want a blanket?”

Aziraphale nodded, and folded his wings in so that he could lie stretched out along the couch. He winced, though really changing their position didn’t alter the pain in any way. If it had been a mundane burn, the movement would no doubt have made it worse, but nothing could make it either worse or better, it just was. It was dilute hellfire, born of demon’s feathers, and not for the last time he considered trying to pluck them. But of course they’d grow in again, and pulling a growing primary would hurt like the dickens too, so it would end up only adding to his pain.

Crowley came over with an armful of blanket, retrieved from the cupboard where Aziraphale stored such things, though it was half full of books, as was every other storage space in the place, including the cupboards of the kitchenette.

He spread the blanket out over Aziraphale, his movements careful and tender. Aziraphale sighed softly, letting his eyes close. “Thank you,” he murmured. Pain still seared through him, but relief was in sight at last, and that helped.

“You’re welcome, angel,” said Crowley. Aziraphale felt a prick of fire against his forehead as Crowley touched a finger there, and then sleep closed over him and everything blissfully went away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. If he got discorporated while halfway between Heaven and Hell, which one of them would issue him a new body? And that question wasn’t even visiting the fact that neither organization was likely to be enthusiastic about said issuing.Back
> 
> \-----
> 
> Aziraphale's taste in Thai food is totally based on my own. Though I _have_ already had the Gang Puck, and I quite like it, I just think Panang is better. I really should try the avocado green curry someday, though.
> 
> I now have a beta reader, yay! Thanks to MundaneChampagne for giving very useful feedback, for catching typos and WTF phrasing, and for noticing every single time I use alliteration. :D
> 
> Also, I _have_ to share a little glee at only tangentially related news. My first dead-tree-edition original novel finally has a firm release date, September 29th! It's been out as an e-book for ages, but the publisher is a teeny small press and the person who does like 80% of things there had some personal life stuff and had to drop doing the physical books for a while. But they're catching up the backlog and mine is finally up. I'm so stoked! An actual book with my actual (well, pen) name on the cover, eeee! I have more about that [over on my DW](https://bladespark.dreamwidth.org/1556700.html), since I can't advertise sales stuff here on AO3.
> 
> I know, original gay vampire adventure/romance has nothing to do with this story. Other than "gay romance" I guess, but I had to mention, because I am just exploding with this. :DDDDDDDD 
> 
> Going to be out of town for the weekend, so no further updates until probably Tuesday.


	4. Chapter 4

“Angel? Angel, talk to me.”

Aziraphale woke to the sound of Crowley’s voice and the sensation of burning. The red-hot pokers in his wings had gone, and instead his entire body was on fire. It was a different sort of fire, though; duller, more feverish. His every cell seemed too hot, and he ached with a bone-deep ache.

“Angel, please.”

He blinked his eyes open to see Crowley’s face hovering over him. His shades were off and his golden eyes looked shadowed with worry.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice felt dry and raspy.

“Oh thank Somebody. You’re burning up, angel. I didn’t know angels—or demons—could even get sick.”

“‘M not sick, ’m Falling,” mumbled Aziraphale. It was true that the feeling had changed, but when he awkwardly unfolded a wing against the back of the couch it was as piebald as ever. He’d just reached some new stage in the process that made the hellfire general rather than specific. He let the wing half-collapse over himself and peered at Crowley. “Anyway, how do you know if I’m feverish?”

“Didn’t even have to touch you, just putting a hand near your skin I can feel it. You’ve always run warmer than me, angel, but not _that_ much warmer.” Crowley frowned at Aziraphale, and reached a hand out, hovering it over his forehead. Then he finally lowered the hand, cupping it over the feverish skin for just a moment.

Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley frowned further and made a softly puzzled noise as he pulled his hand back, then pressed it in again.

“Crowley?” managed Aziraphale, feeling confused. Crowley’s touch hadn’t hurt at all. Admittedly, every inch of him hurt, so perhaps the usual burning was only lost in that full-body ache, but the feel of Crowley’s infernal fire had always been more acute that that. He should have been able to feel it regardless.

Yet felt nothing but the deep ache that suffused his entire being. It was agony, but Crowley’s touch did not add to it.

“It stings a bit,” said Crowley, slowly. “Just static shock, hardly there.”

“Doesn’t hurt me at all. I mean, everything hurts, but it’s no worse.”

Crowley stroked his fingers over Aziraphale’s forehead gently, and Aziraphale felt himself sighing in response. It was an odd thing. He should have been so swamped in pain that the sensation was barely noticeable, but instead it was the only thing he could think about. It was a wonderful, hopeful thing, the way the faintest gust of a cooling breeze made you feel better on a stiflingly hot day, even if it couldn’t actually alleviate the heat.

“I wish I could think of something useful to do,” fretted Crowley, still stroking Aziraphale’s forehead, though he’d said that it stung and knowing Crowley that probably meant it was merely short of agonizing.

“Just be here,” said Aziraphale. He paused, then added, “A cup of tea would be nice, too?”

“Of course.” Crowley smiled, though it was a wan sort of thing, and rose.

Aziraphale slowly levered himself upright, since drinking tea flat on his back would be less than ideal, and re-arranged his piebald wings across the couch cushions. Go— Somebody, he ached. A shiver went through him, and he felt like his teeth might start rattling. Hadn’t Crowley said he was feverish? How could he suddenly feel freezing?

Fortunately a moment later Crowley returned, and pressed a teacup into his hands. “Thank you, my dear,” murmured Aziraphale, and sipped. The tea drove away the sudden shivering, but did nothing for the rest of the pain. Still, it was good, and he finished the cup before setting it aside.

“How are you feeling?” asked Crowley, kneeling next to the couch again.

“Moderately awful. Everything aches. I think my _hair_ aches. I hope this stage of things doesn’t last the rest of the molt.” He frowned faintly. “I wonder, in fact… I suspect it’s like this because it’s at an equilibrium. If I was just a tiny bit more demonic, it’d tip over to the other side and I’d be properly a demon, I suppose.”

“Huh. That makes sense. I could probably do that for you. If I pushed a little power into you…”

Aizraphale nodded. “Perhaps you should. Anything that makes this process go faster seems like a good idea.”

“Right.” Crowley shifted, rising higher on his knees. “Let me just…” His hands touched Aziraphale again, a finger resting at each temple. Aziraphale let out another soft sigh at the touch. “Okay, here goes,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale felt a prickling at his temples, a flash of warmth, a sudden rush of feverishness through his whole body, then a sudden chill, an odd feeling of _loss_, and then the ache that suffused him vanished. For just a heartbeat he was relieved, but an instant later dozens of points of fresh pain blossomed across his wings, starting as pinpricks and swelling towards searing agony, not red-hot pokers now but crackling lightning jolting into the base of each feather. Dimly he knew that it was the white ones that hurt now. Dimly he understood exactly what had happened, but only dimly, because he was too busy screaming, collapsing forward against Crowley as unbearable pain filled him to the brim.

It was far worse than he’d felt before, for when he’d been put to sleep only a fraction of the feathers had been black. Now half his wings were white, torturing him, and it was too much, he couldn’t do anything but scream and scream and scream, even though Crowley was holding him tightly and that didn’t hurt anymore but it didn’t matter, his wings were agony too great to even notice Crowley’s touch.

Finally, after an unbearable eternity that was actually only a few seconds, Crowley’s hand pushed against his forehead again and the world went away, taking the pain mercifully with it.

****

“Wake up, angel,” said Crowley’s tired voice, as Aziraphale swam back to consciousness once more. He blinked blearily, stunned by the fact that _nothing hurt_. Was this a dream? He felt weak as a kitten, wrung out like a dishrag, and there was a strange hollowness somewhere in his chest, but there was no pain at all.

Crowley smiled at him. “There you are. With me now?”

“I think so. What happened?”

“We’re both bloody idiots, that’s what happened. I tipped the balance to the ‘demon’ side, your white feathers started torturing you, and, well…” Crowley gestured behind him as Aziraphale once more levered himself upright to observe the drift of white scattered around the room. His old feathers. All of them. He glanced back at his wings. They were patchy, with large swathes of dimpled pink flesh showing, and broad gaps were nearly all his secondaries were gone—the primaries had already all come in black—but though all his feathers had to have been ripped out, and indeed he could see blood on the shafts of many of those lying scattered about the room, there was no blood on his skin, and not even a trace of pain.

The demonic feathers, his new feathers, were sleek and glossy and black, but without the white to make them look even darker than they were, Aziraphale could see that they were a squid ink sort of black, like the darkest possible sepia, a fractionally lighter and much warmer color than Crowley’s pure midnight black.

“You pulled them, and you healed me?” said Aziraphale, wonderingly.

“You were whimpering. Had to listen to you whimpering for days before, couldn’t take it anymore. I figured that’d solve it, and since our natures mix just fine now, I could actually heal you.”

“But to pull them you’d have to…” Aziraphale looked down at where Crowley held his hands cradled against his knees. Not resting naturally, but palms up, so that the ravaged skin wouldn’t touch his trousers. They were red and blistered, and Aziraphale felt his heart breaking with sorrow and love at once. Crowley had done that, for him.

“Oh, Crowley, dearest…”

He slid off the couch and knelt next to Crowley, then took his hand. Crowley flinched ever so slightly, as if tensed for the pain that had always come when they touched, but there was none at all. Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand and kissed each finger with slow reverence. He felt exhausted and worn, but there was a wellspring of power somewhere in his core, power that felt both like and unlike the angelic power he was used to, and he drew on that to send healing energy into Crowley’s hands with each kiss. “_Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,_” he murmured, and pressed a kiss into Crowley’s palm.

“Oh not Wilde,” said Crowley, but his protest was half-hearted, and there was something gentle in his voice.

Aziraphale smiled against Crowley’s hand, now free of blisters, and moved to the other. “No Wilde then.” He kissed a finger gently. “_Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?_” He murmured each phrase in between a shower of kisses; accompanied the poetry with all the healing power he could muster.

“Yes, Shakespeare’s much better.” Crowley’s tone was trying very hard to be casual. “Though isn’t that the one that ends with the bit about spite?”

“_Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes,_” said Aziraphale, and planted one more kiss on Crowley’s palm before looking up at him, eyes shining. “That one has always made me think of you, my dear.”

Crowley just shook his head, but there was a glimmer of what might be tears in his eyes. Aziraphale felt tears in his own, and he closed his eyes when Crowley reached out to wipe them away, then leaned into it when the demon cupped his cheek.

He felt the brush of Crowley’s lips against his forehead, and it was better than any celestial glory he’d ever experienced. How had he ever been afraid of Falling, when Falling had been all that had stood between him and _this_ all this time?

He opened his eyes and stared into Crowley’s, the demon—the other demon—mere inches away now. His glorious golden eyes seemed to fill the whole world, and the pain Aziraphale could see in them stabbed him through all over again. “Crowley? You alright there?”

“Just… Your eyes. They’re like mine now, snake eyes. You’ve _actually_ gone and fallen. Doesn’t seem possible still, somehow.”

Aziraphale blinked, his reaction more puzzled than anything else. “Snake? But shouldn’t my eyes reflect my… Oh! They’re not snake eyes, they’re cat eyes. Of course. Still blue?”

Crowley blinked at him. “How are you not bothered by this? You’ve just…jumped into being a demon, headfirst. How can you be okay with it?”

“Because you’re here,” he said gently to Crowley. “Because you’ve been here all this time. Because I’ve had six thousand years to see that a demon doesn’t have to be a monster. Six thousand years to learn how to question Heaven. Six thousand years of longing for you, my dearest, and now you’re here, and I can touch you.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand again, interlacing their fingers, Crowley’s longer ones with his short, stout ones. “I know it’s not all poetry and roses and crème brûlée—it hasn’t been so far, certainly!—but how can I fear it, after all that? How can I regret it?”

“Oh, angel…” Crowley leaned in again, and the kiss he pressed on Aziraphale this time wasn’t to his forehead.

Aziraphale had kissed before, so he knew what he was doing when he kissed Crowley back, but kisses had never been like this. They’d been pleasant enough, generally, with a little frisson of physical passion running down his spine and a lovely feeling of caring, of human connection. But this was a thrill, a rush, a thing almost like lightning, almost like burning, but good, so very good. It made his heart pound and his head spin and all he wanted in that moment was more; more of this, more of Crowley, forever.

Crowley seemed to want much the same, for the kiss went on and on, tongues twining, exploring, bodies close, eyes closed as they both savored the long-withheld wonderfulness of it. Eventually, though, they broke apart. 

Crowley was smiling now, as he stared into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Cat’s eyes, huh?” he said. “I guess that figures. Never did ask what your aspect was. But something prim, fussy, far too obsessed with food, associated with bookshops… It’s very you.”

“I’m not necessarily a house cat, you know,” said Aziraphale, with a little put-upon huff, though it came with a smile. “Any more than you’re a garden snake. I was a lion when I was first sent to guard Eden.”

“I don’t recall seeing any angelic lions about,” said Crowley with a chuckle and a raise of his eyebrows.

“Well, they went and issued me a flaming sword just after that, as you may recall, and lions are rather ill-suited to carrying weaponry, my dear.”

“Can you still change?”

“I suppose I can. I haven’t in ages and ages.”

“Why not? Always wondered that, really. Demons take up their aspects all the time. I figured maybe angels had lost the ability or something, since the Great War.”

“Oh no, it mostly just became, well…rather looked down on. Partly the fault of your lot—my lot now, I suppose. Demons are so fond of their aspects. You’ve seen how many of them work them into their human forms. Even you’ve got that little tattoo.” He furrowed his brow. “Perhaps I should get one myself.”

“You never struck me as the tattoo-getting sort,” said Crowley with a laugh.

Aziraphale laughed too. “I’m finding that after giving up on fretting endlessly about being righteous that I’m a rather different sort than I used to think.” Aziraphale felt another rush of that giddy, free feeling. He could get a tattoo if he liked! Or figure out how to manifest one. He could do whatever he wanted. “But in any case, there was also the business about humans being in the image of God. Human form was considered more Godly. Taking your aspect was imitating a dumb beast, it was lowering yourself. So it became something that was just not done Upstairs.”

“As if God didn’t give everyone their aspects in the first place. Bunch of stuffed shirts, the lot of them.”

“Oh yes, very much so. But not me, not anymore.”

Crowley chuckled. “You might be a bit stuffed, still, angel.”

“Well, I’m working on it.”

“Can you unbend enough to show me your aspect? I’m curious.”

“I’ll try.” Aziraphale straightened, still sitting on the floor, but sitting up properly, shifting to cross his legs, letting his eyes slide half closed.

His body shifted and flowed, and as Crowley watched with interest, he collapsed downward until a fluffy house cat was sitting there. Aziraphale looked down at his own paws, and saw that they were golden brown, and his forelegs seemed to be marked with broad black stripes. His ears went down flat, then flicked back up again. “Oh dear.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley was watching with fascination plain on his face.

“Last time I did this, I was quite definitely white-furred. I suppose demons aren’t permitted to be white. How repressive.” His tone was disapproving.

“You look quite handsome, angel,” said Crowley. “Much more interesting than boring white.”

Aziraphale looked back at himself. “I suppose. I wish I had a mirror.”

“Here, let me… Hmm. Should be right there in the bedroom… Ah, yes.” Crowley frowned in concentration, then snapped his fingers. A moment later a big standing mirror in a sleek black frame appeared. “There you go, angel.”

Aziraphale looked in the mirror, taking himself in. He was enormous for a house cat, stockily built, with a thick coat and a long, exceptionally fluffy tail. His fur might perhaps have been called brown tabby, but it was brighter than many brown tabbies, with a rich tawny color like burnished gold, marked with broad, bold, black stripes. His eyes were a clear, bright blue, brighter, perhaps, than a human’s eyes could have been, and they flashed when they caught the light just so.

“The stripes _are_ more interesting,” he said, turning himself around to get different angles.

Crowley, meanwhile, could no longer resist, and reached out and stroked a hand down over Aziraphale’s soft fur. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, and somewhat to his own surprise, started purring.

“Oh that’s nice,” said Aziraphale. “But I want to see what the rest of them look like, now. They were all just plain white before, even the ones that usually have spots or stripes.”

“Let’s see ‘em, then. I bet they’re all handsome as anything.”

“Oh, well,” started Aziraphale, about to voice his usual safe self-abnegation. Wouldn’t do to be prideful. But he might as well tick that sin off too, mightn’t he? “I suppose they probably are.” He tilted his head again, admiring the way his eyes contrasted with the honey-gold of his coat. “Let’s find out.”

A moment later the tawny house cat was gone and an immense tawny lion stood in its place. The lion had an impressive black mane, and the same blue, slitted eyes, even though lions proper have round pupils. Like most angels or demons, his eyes were one thing Aziraphale couldn’t change, no matter what form he took.

“You’re bloody huge,” said Crowley, grinning.

Aziraphale only laughed, and became a Siberian tiger, even larger than the lion had been. He was tawny like this too, though tigers should be more orange, but he was a golden color, and his stripes were thick and broad and the same sepia-ink shade as his wings. 

He tried several more big cats, and then a few of the small cats as well, in quick succession. They were all gold and black. He frowned and tried something else. “Even the snow leopard. Except that it makes me look like an Amur Leopard. Does that mean I can’t be a proper snow leopard? Oh, no, _this_ is an Amur leopard. A golden snow leopard just doesn’t seem right, though. Foo.”

“You’re completely ridiculous, angel. And I can’t see any difference between this one and the last one.”

“They’re completely different species,” huffed Aziraphale. “The snow leopard was larger, and they have wildly different facial structures, dearest.”

“They’re both great, big, fluffy, spotted buggers,” said Crowley, grinning.

“Hmph. You might as well say that grass snakes and adders are both the same since they’re both barred,” said Aziraphale. “I mean really, my dear.”

Crowley just laughed.

“Gold and black,” said Aziraphale, angling himself again in the mirror, looking at the long, dense fur of the Amur leopard. “You know, I’ve seen some quite attractive gold and black tartan patterns. It’s not the most common color combination, but there are some.”

“I thought you were going to bring your wardrobe into the twenty-first century, angel.”

“People still wear tartan,” said Aziraphale stuffily. They were both smiling though, even if for once Aizraphale’s grin was more sharp-fanged than Crowley’s. A moment later he melted back into the fluffy little house cat.

“How do you feel about petting cats?” said the former angel.

“Hah. Hedonist. But then you _are_ a cat.” Crowley got up and seated himself on the couch, then patted his lap. “Come on, then.”

Aziraphale jumped into Crowley’s lap and curled up there. Crowley immediately began stroking him, running his hand down Aziraphale’s back over and over. Aziraphale gave in almost immediately and began purring, letting his eyes slide closed. This was simply lovely.

“You know, I could just about fall asleep like this. I don’t, ordinarily, recent events to the contrary, but… It’s lovely. You’re lovely, Crowley, just lovely. I could stay here like this with you for all eternity.”

Crowley only smiled and continued petting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! With basically my favorite chapter of this whole thing. (Although the one where Gabriel turns up towards the end is pretty good too.)
> 
> Kitty Aziraphale is just too great. :D I debated forever about his animal aspect. I even had a dream one night that it was a moth, and that now that he'd fallen he had Satanic runes on his wings! Which is an idea I may use in another story, but I finally just couldn't resist the cat.
> 
> My original plan for the story had them getting to the point with the kiss, and then just devolving into an explicit fic, like at least half my stories do. But then I had all these other ideas, so there are six more chapters worth of this and that to go.


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later there was a knock on the bookshop door, well after hours.

Aziraphale was curled up on the couch with a book, one of his old favorites. He didn’t have the energy to read anything new just now. Crowley was wrapped around him, all long limbs and serpentine curls, despite his seemingly human form. He’d done a lot of napping over the past two days; taking care of Aziraphale during his strange, Falling molt had taken a lot out of him. Aziraphale himself still felt not quite right, and he wasn’t sure how much of that was tiredness and the lingering echoes of vanished pain, and how much was the fact that he was a demon now.

But however changed he might be, he couldn’t imagine being so changed that he wouldn’t want to be with Crowley. They hadn’t been apart for a second during those days, and now that they could touch, they’d spent most of it, waking or sleeping, finding ways to do so. Whether it was a brush of hands over the table at lunch or cuddling up on the couch together as they were now, they’d touched as often as they possibly could, each of them simply soaking up the long-denied contact.

“We’re closed,” called out Aziraphale, though even that wasn’t really necessary, since it was ten at night and the door was locked. He had no idea why anybody would be knocking in the first place.

“So I can’t purchase a fine old volume of, say, Georgian erotica here? How disappointing.”

The voice was deep and rich, the sort of voice that got called things like “mellifluous”, and it wasn’t at all familiar to Aziraphale, but Crowley went rigid and said “Oh fuck,” before extracting himself from Aziraphale and the couch with enough haste to leave the former angel more than a little ruffled.

Crowley bolted into the bookshop proper, and Aziraphale picked himself up and followed, feeling a knot of anxious fear join the hollow feel of his lack of grace in his chest. 

When he came in sight of the visitor, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man of early middle age, dark hair just touched with elegant silver at the temples, in an impeccably tailored modern suit, coat and shirt both jet black, tie deep burgundy red. His eyes for a moment seemed almost ordinary, a slightly reddish brown, but Aziraphale immediately perceived that this was an illusion, and saw that the real eyes were pure crimson from one side to the other, with neither pupil nor sclera. They also glowed faintly, hellish energy leaking out from them as if it were under pressure and needed an outlet.

“What are you doing here?” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could tell he was trying to be brave, but also that he was utterly terrified.

“I’ve come to welcome my new employee, Crowley. I know that when you joined us things were much less formalized, but there’s paperwork these days. The Lords of Hell do love their paperwork.” The man held out a manila folder to Aziraphale, but Crowley stepped between them, hissing.

“Don’t touch him.” Then, with a twist of his lips, Crowley added, “My Lord.”

“Nonsense, Crowley, call me Lucifer.” The man smiled with perfect, white, even teeth, and Aziraphale felt the world spin around him for a dizzying moment. Satan, the Archangel of the Abyss, the Son of the Morning, the King of Hell, the Father of Lies, was standing in his bookshop.

Lucifer waved the envelope again. Satan, the Archangel of the Abyss, the Son of the Morning, the King of Hell, the Father of Lies, was standing in his bookshop, having come to bring Aziraphale paperwork.

Tentatively, Crowley reached out and took the thick envelope. He regarded it as if it might bite him, but when it remained only paper, he finally handed it back to Aziraphale.

“Weclome to Hell!!!” was printed on it in bright red Comic Sans, with three of the letters slightly misaligned from the rest3, and beneath that, in a clashing font and a bizarre bruise purple ink, “You Don’t Have to Be Damned To work Here But It Hleps!” There was a smiley face sticker with demon horns on it stuck jauntily under that.

As something of a connoisseur of the printed word, the sight of it made Aziraphale want to find a shredder, but he refrained, only looking curiously at Lucifer.

“Lucifer. Why are you here?” said Crowley stiffly.

“The paperwork, I believe I said?” Lucifer lifted both eyebrows, looking amused.

“But why _you?_” hissed Crowley, despite the total lack of sibilants in any of the words, still obviously on edge.

“Curiosity, I suppose. I wanted to see two such remarkable beings.” He gave Aziraphale a nod.

“Oh, certainly, just wanted to have a look after we ruined your Armageddon, totally natural, nothing else going on.”

Lucifer chuckled. “No hard feelings, Crowley. It may well be for the best.”

Crowley blinked at him suspiciously. “But…” He twitched when Aziraphale took his hand.

“Crowley, my dear, if, er, our Lord wanted to burn down the bookshop around us and kill us both, I’m certain he’s quite capable of it. But he is acting like a gentleman, and it will accomplish very little to respond churlishly.”

Crowley made a little growling sound at the back of his throat, but said nothing.

Lucifer chuckled again. “Honestly, it’s only curiosity. I may be the Father of Lies, but I don’t lie all the time.” He winked. “Lies are more effective when you nearly always tell the truth. I’m genuinely curious. I wanted to meet Aziraphale in particular.” He inclined his head ever so slightly. “It’s a pleasure. Or have you chosen a new name yet?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, no, I’m still using the old one for now. Am I required to change?”

Lucifer shrugged. “I never did, just added more on top of the old. But most demons do. There’s a spot for it on the forms.”

“My Lord…” Crowley’s voice was strangled, still struggling with disbelief, and he was still shifting to edge between his boss and Aziraphale, any time either of them moved. Aziraphale sighed, hoping that Crowley wasn’t going to make this all go pear-shaped.

“Call me Lucifer,” he repeated, and smiled, seeming entirely amused by all this. “Crowley, my lad, do you know anything about the genre of Devil fooling stories?”

Crowley tilted his head, his predominant expression still confusion. “…yes?”

“Then you know that ordinary humans get one over on me all the time, and I don’t hold grudges.” Lucifer beamed at the two of them, though there was a predatory gleam to the smile. “Admittedly some of the stories I made up myself. Thinking that it’s possible leads to hubris, to humans believing that they will be the special one, they will be the one to make a deal with the Devil and come out on top. I like going up there and doing it personally sometimes. The one-on-one touch is entertaining, and I don’t have your flair for mass marginal damnation.” He gave Crowley a nod and wink. “Mostly I win. But some of the stories are true. Some mortals really have managed to cleverly trick me, and when they do, I always let them get away with it. I admire the mortals smart enough to pull it off, I don’t want to slap them down for entertaining me so. I see no reason why it should be any different for demons.”

“I see,” said Crowley, for want of anything better to say.

“You probably wouldn’t have gotten away with your little switcheroo if I’d been there, but I wasn’t there, and you did get away with it, so congratulations! If Beelzebub or even Gabriel asks, I will be very baffled about how a demon could be holy, or an angel hellish, and shall opine that you’re both far too unpredictable and powerful to trifle with.” He gave Aziraphale another wink. Then he turned back to Crowley, though it wasn’t much of a turn, since Crowley was still standing as if to protect Aziraphale from Lucifer, futile as that might be. Aziraphale couldn’t help but be warmed seeing it, even if it was also alarming. He didn’t really want Crowley to fling himself between an angry King of Hell and himself.

“I always did like you Crowley. You have imagination, creativity, cleverness, all that. It’s very lacking in most demons, much to my dismay. Do you know what it’s like, trying to arrange for mortal temptations using people who’ve never had an original thought in their lives? It’s only the predictability of certain mortals that makes it effective at all. Dear Beez has some low cunning, but even they’re not really all that creative. But you are. You do the most delightful, ridiculous, fascinating, astonishing things sometimes!”

Lucifer’s eyes were suddenly boring into Aziraphale’s, and he added with a low, almost leering tone, “And Crowley, lad, you’ve done something no other demon has ever done. You’ve made an angel both fall for you and Fall for you.” He managed to pronounce the capital letter somehow, Aziraphale could hear it. “I do hope you’re fully enjoying the fruits of that particular endeavor, now that Heaven’s Celestial Energy isn’t keeping you at bay?”

“Oh, ah, well…” Crowley actually flushed.

“It’s been a very trying few weeks…my Lord.” Aziraphale hesitated over the title, but decided better safe than sorry. “But we were certainly enjoying ourselves when you arrived.”

“Delightful, delightful. I’m quite glad. A little earthly pleasure is bad for the soul. Which is just what a demon needs.” He grinned again. “Truly, I should be thanking you two. I’ll admit I was looking forward to Hell On Earth, but Hell itself is so dreadfully boring. Armageddon fizzling may be partially my fault, as well, I’ll freely admit that. My little boy—so clever, you can see me in him there at least, dear thing!—had it right. I wasn’t a father to him. If I’d wanted him to grow up fully in my demonic mold, I really should have seen to his upbringing myself. But no matter, really. Hell On Earth would have been fun, but just plain On Earth is always entertaining, and it’s not as if I can’t try again, a few years down the line.”

“Ah. Yes, of course,” said Crowley limply, looking more than a little confused, still. His seldom-glimpsed boss, Satan himself, had barged in to more or less start monologuing at him, which was confusing Aziraphale too, truth be told. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Lucifer’s ramble. He didn’t exactly disbelieve any of it, but he didn’t _trust_ it a single inch, either.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what else humanity has in store for the future. And to what else you two come up with.” His eyes fixed on Aziraphale again. “Your welcome to Hell is genuine, my child.” His lips quirked upward; he knew exactly what he was invoking with that turn of phrase. “You may go there without fear. Or at least without fear of official reprisal. On Hell’s books you and Crowley are both in, well, I can’t call it ‘good graces’ because we’re not good and we certainly don’t have grace, but you get the idea, I’m sure. Unofficial vendettas are as sanctioned as always, though, so I’d stay away from Hastur, at least, if you do pop in for a visit. I may pop by here now and again as well.” His eyes swept the cluttered shelves. “I wasn’t lying about my interest in Georgian erotica, either. And I hear the dining around London is excellent! But for now I must be off.”

He nodded at Aziraphale again, and to Crowley, and then was out the door, leaving only the faintest whiff of sulfur behind him.

The pair of demons stood and blinked at the closed door behind for a while.

“Did… Did Satan just give you a Hellish welcome packet and congratulate us on foiling him, or am I hallucinating?” said Crowley.

“I seem to have a Hellish welcome packet here, and the shop smells of brimstone, so… I think so?” Aziraphale looked at the suspiciously thick envelope again, with its appalling label, then set it beside the register to deal with later. Then he wrapped his arms tightly around Crowley, both seeking and giving reassurance. “I suppose I should look into stocking some Georgian erotica. My collection is very lacking in it,” he added, almost absently, then shook his head. “To be honest, that went far better than I could have hoped my welcome to Hell would, my dear. But now I think we both need a good, stiff drink. And a long cuddle. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah. Sounds tickety-boo, angel.” Crowley’s eyes were a little wild behind his shades, and he shook himself suddenly. “Fuck, he’s scary even when he’s dialed it down like that.”

“Indeed. Though I think I still prefer this to being welcomed by Beelzebub. Or Hastur. Can you just imagine?”

“Ha!” Crowley’s bark of laughter was perhaps just a little too bright, but he settled down again on the couch as Aziraphale got out a wine bottle, and the two of them shared a drink, as companionably as they had ever since the invention of alcohol, save that now they sat with their knees touching, brushed fingers often, leaned in close as they never had in all those thousands of years.

It seemed like such a waste, that Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen all that time ago, that they hadn’t had this closeness immediately. Yet he knew he’d needed every one of those six thousand years to get to this point, to the point where he could tell Heaven to go stuff themselves, to the point where he could embrace being a demon with anything other than utter horror.

Hearing his own thoughts, Aziraphale shook his head and took a deeper draught of his wine. “How did it all go so wrong?”

“Angel?”

“The Great Plan. Heaven. I was just thinking that it would have been better if I’d Fallen six thousand years ago. We could have been together. But was Heaven… Was it the way it is now, then? When did it happen? When did it stop being a place awash in God’s love and turn into some kind of cleaner imitation of Hell? When did angels become so bad?”

Crowley sighed. “Dunno if you’ll want to hear it, angel, but I don’t think it ever was the kind of place you thought. It was good for you when you fit in there, good for you when you toed the party line. It never was good for those of us who didn’t. And take it from me, Michael’s always been like that. I didn’t know Gabriel back then, but I bet he was too. Heaven doesn’t change. Neither does Hell. Not unless something really shakes them up. It’s Earth where the changing happens. It’s Earth that changed you and changed me.” Crowley slid his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, then took another long swig from his glass.

“I started talking to you for a bit of a lark, you know. I was bored, there were only two humans yet, and I didn’t want to go back to Hell. I kept popping up just to bother you. Just to poke at your righteousness, because you were a smug, righteous angel, just like the rest of ‘em. You really were, you know. Giving away the sword was an early sign—that surprised me! But for a long time… Noah, Sodom and Gomorrah, the business with Moses and the firstborns, the conquest of Caanan and all that with killing every man, woman, child and animal… Woof. You kept defending it all, saying it was right and good for all these people to suffer and die, because it was God’s will.”

Aziraphale felt a pang. “I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“Nah, don’t be. It’s all you knew. You’ve changed a lot since then, though. And so have I. I dunno that I can even put a pin in when it changed, but I stopped coming around just to puncture your righteousness, you know? I started coming around just to…be around you. Still what I want, angel. I want to be around you.” He smiled and leaned a little more firmly against Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale didn’t answer with words, but he slid an arm around Crowley and pulled him in tight. To be around Crowley was all he wanted either. Heaven and Hell and even Earth didn’t really matter. This, the two of them together, was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. If they’d all been misaligned it would have just looked sloppy, but only three of them being off gave one the maddening urge to make them line up with the rest.Back
> 
> \-----
> 
> This is probably one of the sillier chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

They went clothes shopping the next day. 

Pain had left him, but Aziraphale was still molting. The itching wasn’t as bad, since he had no more feathers to shed, but the new pinfeathers still pushing up into place itched, and he felt vaguely irritated about small things rather out of proportion. Part of him wanted to be afraid that it was because he was a demon, but he knew perfectly well that he was always out of sorts while molting. He was glad that angels, unlike earthly birds, didn’t molt all that often. Why some birds molted three times a year! He molted once every three years, give or take a bit, and that was bad enough.

Still, being Fallen, or being in molt, neither meant that his life came to a halt, and he had acquired plans for the next weekend, plans which needed him to be out in public, and therefore required clothes.

He’d picked out the darkest suit jacket he owned to wear shopping, a warm caramel color, which would go with his wings well enough, if only he had the right accents to go with it, so he felt he could keep that. But the camel waistcoat under it and the pale tartan bow tie and the light blue shirt would all probably have to go.

Maybe he could keep the shirt? He frowned, thinking about possible outfits. It all depended on what he found, of course. But one could wear this particular light blue with nearly any color of menswear, really. Just because Crowley went in all dark colors didn’t mean he needed to. For one thing, it would make his hair look ridiculous, a fluff of white atop a sea of black. He just couldn’t possibly continue in _all_ light colors.

Crowley seemed to think that Aziraphale was going to go as all-black as he, and they had a few friendly tiffs over Crowley’s continued suggestion of black everything. And when he ventured out of black…

“No, dear, I am not going to wear that. No. Red doesn’t suit me in the least.”

“Come on, angel, red, black and gold go perfectly well together.”

“I won’t have it. Now this one…” He ran a finger over a brown jacket that was a deep chocolate color only a few shades lighter than the black of his wings. “This one might do. I do wish there was room for the wings in a fitting room. It’s absurd how tiny they are.”

“Just pop them out in front of the hall mirror. I can guard the hall door so no mortals catch an eyeful.”

“You’re such a dear, Crowley. I’ll do that, then.”

He ended up with the dark brown jacket and matching dark trousers, and later found a waistcoat that while not metallic could probably be described as “gold”, neatly trimmed with just a little gold embroidery, which Aziraphale had been stunned to find. Nobody embroidered menswear anymore, and he had missed it so deeply. But a quirky little boutique with handmade clothing had turned out to have this perfect gem, and he was delighted to have it.

He hadn’t been able to find a bow tie he liked, though. There were none to be had in black and gold tartan, it seemed. He regarded his reflection in the latest dressing room mirror and considered, then shrugged and undid the top button of his shirt. He could go without, perhaps. If he left off the waistcoat, it would be a nice semi-casual look, and he could save waistcoat for when he found the perfect tie to go with it. Perhaps he would see if the boutique’s tailor took commissions and have one made?

When Aziraphale came out of the dressing room in a new shirt of a blue the same hue as his eyes, the top button undone, Crowley looked like he’d been pole-axed. His eyes fixed on the hollow of Aziraphale’s now-revealed throat and he swallowed hard. Aziraphale found himself smiling. Back in olden times he’d showed a lot more skin than this—he’d shown all of it at the baths more than once, back in Rome, for one thing—and it had never meant anything. Funny how covering something up could make revealing it so tantalizing.

He thought, suddenly, that Crowley’s goodness was like that. Something the demon had covered up, that made it all the more attractive when little glimpses of it were revealed.

They had lunch at a lovely little cafe in the shopping district. Crowley toyed with a croissant and sipped a cup of jet black coffee. Aziraphale ordered a croque madame and managed to eat it without getting a drop of yolk or sauce on himself. He wondered if it would be suitably demonic or only embarrassing if he licked the plate clean. He always wanted to, with anything that involved bechamel, hollandaise, or any of his other favorite sauces.

In the end he decided against it and ordered a dessert instead.

They wandered through the shopping district some more after lunch. Aziraphale had an outfit now, but there was no reason he couldn’t pick up a few more things. They wandered in and out of all kinds of little shops, clothing and otherwise, and they found their hands meeting often, fingers twining together, just because they could.

Aziraphale was unable to resist ducking into a classy little stationary shop when they passed by it. He browsed the fascinating assortment of papers, pens, inks, and other miscellany with a kind of lazy delight, knowing that he had nowhere to be, no one to answer to, nothing to do but spend the day out with Crowley. Crowley slunk along after him, poking at the pens and complaining that he was bored and that this was all stuffy and dull. It was a teasing sort of complaint, and the fact that he was paying attention was made quite clear when he said, “Oh hey, angel, come look at this one.”

“This one” proved to be a pen, one of just a handful in a display of high-end fountain pens. It was jet black, with bronze fittings that glowed like gold, and a little segment just between the grip and the nib that was a cross-hatch of black and gold that almost resembled tartan.

“Oh my.” Aziraphale looked at it and wanted it immediately. He already owned several fountain pens, as well as a few nice ball points and even one lovely quill pen that he’d cut from one of his own feathers. Though he’d probably have to make a new one now, given that even shed, the white quill might well burn him now.

He regarded the gorgeous fountain pen and considered using the need to replace his quill as an excuse to get it.

“Try it out if you like,” said the young man behind the counter. “It’s got a cartridge in and there’s paper right there.”

Aziraphale lifted the pen, and smiled at the smooth, elegant line it left behind. Using a fountain pen was so much more satisfying than a modern ball point or felt tip. Those had only taken over the market because they were cheaper, but a good fountain pen was just as easy to use, and felt simply glorious to write with.

He scrawled out his name, then Crowley’s after it, putting an ampersand appended with a little heart between them. Then he returned the pen to its stand and glanced at the price.

“Oh dear.”

“It’s our most expensive model right now,” said the clerk, apologetically. “It really is a fine pen, you won’t find a better one, and it’s a true prestige item! But it’s not for everyone, of course.”

“You should buy it, angel,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale frowned. “I should hardly spend almost a thousand pounds on a pen. I already have more than enough of the things.”

“Money is hardly an object for you. You spend more than that on books all the time.”

“The books are my passion, my dear. I can justify them. They’re for education, for understanding, for my own personal betterment. I know they are also an indulgence, but this is something I do not need at all. I only want it because it looks nice. That’s really quite absurd.”

“Oh yes, it very much is. Still, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. If this is a sin… Let’s see, what of the ones you’re trying to tick off would this fall under? It’s not envy, exactly… Don’t think ‘covetousness’ is on the list of the classic seven deadlies.”

“Greed,” said Aziraphale, suddenly smiling. “Covetousness and greed are quite close. It would most definitely be greedy to acquire something rare and expensive that you do not need, solely because you want it. So I do believe I _shall_ purchase it,” he said, as he turned to the clerk.

“Oh! Thank you very much.” The way the clerk was suddenly beaming made Aziraphale suspect that he got a commission, but he didn’t mind that. It meant he’d be doing good and sinning at the same time, which felt strangely right. “I’ll get it boxed up for you, then.”

“Knew you had it in you to be greedy,” said Crowley, smirking.

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure there was ever any doubt, given how close a cousin greed is to gluttony.”

“Well, you never know. You used to come over all virtuous against all reason sometimes.” 

There was a flicker of worry across Crowley’s face as he finished speaking, as if he regretted those words, but Aziraphale had just had another thought, and he leaned close to Crowley and said, softly, just in Crowley’s ear, “Do you know, Crowley, my dear, what I’ve been greedy for the most often down the millennia?”

“Ah…” Crowley was blushing, and Aziraphale grinned.

“You,” said the former angel. “Always you.”

“I, er, uhm, that is…” Crowley floundered, and Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, he laughed.

“Bastard,” Crowley groused.

“I’m given to understand that’s why you love me, dearest,” said Aziraphale, with teasing fondness.

Crowley only scowled.

Aziraphale only laughed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little intermission of a chapter today.
> 
> Tomorrow, Aziraphale tries out wrath.


	7. Chapter 7

“I never quite figured you the sort to march in the street, angel,” said Crowley. “Me, yes, I’ve been in any number of revolutions, though I did try to skip the French one,” he gave Aziraphale a wink. “But it’s not really your thing, is it?”

“The Tadfield Pride march isn’t a revolution, my dear. And I feel a certain kinship, you know. Quite a lot of them come closer than most humans to understanding how an angel or a demon can be neither man nor woman, even if we happen to look that way. And others, well… Surely you can feel a certain…sympathy for people who’ve been told by the powers that be that their love is impossible?”

“I, well, I mean…” Crowley hemmed and hawed with an adorable blush, and Aziraphale smiled. He knew Crowley wasn’t good about discussing these things. Indeed, he’d brought it up at least half to tease the demon. But it was true all the same.

“So you wanted your new outfit to wear to a pride march? Isn’t it a bit subdued for that?”

“You’re quite free to wear rainbow if you like, Crowley.”

That was worth it just for the expression on Crowley’s face. “Yeah, I’ll pass on that. Though I suppose I might get a flag pin or something. They have lots these days.”

“They do, yes. I’m given to understand that there will be booths selling that kind of thing at the event itself, at the end of the march. Or you could miracle up one, if you like.”

“Hmm.” Crowley frowned faintly. Then a small flag-shaped pin in black, white, and gray, with a central stripe of bright green,4 appeared on his lapel. “There, that’ll do.”

Aziraphale smiled and conjured an eight-banded rainbow5 in the same shape for his own lapel. “Indeed. I just need to finish my sign, then, and we can be off.”

Crowley blinked. “You made a sign?”

“I like to do things properly, my dear, you know that. It’s very much the done thing to carry a sign when marching in a Pride march. So yes, I made a sign. Not a massive one, but I need to finish coloring in the last bit. It’ll only be a moment.”

“Only for you would I do this, angel. Only for you.”

“Come now! There will be plenty of opportunities to cause mischief at the march, I’m sure. Perhaps I’ll even be able to check off another sin. I’ve gotten three out of seven now, by my count.”

Crowley just shook his head and smiled.

They got to the march just in time, Crowley of course miraculously finding a perfect parking spot for the Bentley despite the pair being among the last arrivals. The atmosphere was festive and cheerful. Groups marching together were organizing themselves behind their banners, while those who were here alone or at least weren’t part of any formal organizations clustered randomly here and there, the march’s organizers gently herding them about.

As humans in bright colors and carrying signs and banners milled around them, Aziraphale noticed something.

Humans always left a little bit of space around Crowley. They weren’t consciously aware of it, but they could sense the demonic nature radiating from him. It made humans just a little bit reluctant to approach him, so unless the crowding was very bad, there would always be a little clear space around him.

Aziraphale had previously had just the opposite problem. Humans were drawn to him. It wasn’t that they stood too close. It was, rather, that something in his angelic nature drew their confessions, their tales of hurt and woe, their worries and troubles.

He’d never really liked it. It was nice when he could help them, but so often he couldn’t, and he could never go out in public without hearing an endless stream of far too personal information. It was extremely uncomfortable.

It was yet another reason why he liked being around Crowley. The demonic repulsion and angelic attraction canceled out, and they ended up being treated like anybody else in the crowd.

Now, though, there was a little circle of empty avoidance around them both.

It felt like a rejection, like humanity itself had judged him and found him wanting. He felt a heaviness in his heart, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was evil now, and humanity knew it.

That was absurd. Aziraphale had never liked the approaches and the confessions, he should be pleased to be free of them. But he _had_ very much liked being just part of the crowd, and now it seemed that was impossible. He sighed, leaning into Crowley for a moment, taking comfort from his presence, from the warmth of their interlaced fingers. That touch came with a cost, he’d known that. No doubt other problems would crop up as he went on with life as a demon. The feel of Crowley’s fingers twined with his was still worth it, he told himself, but the heaviness lingered all the same.

There was a fine mist of rain as the march began, but the air of cheer didn’t diminish. Aziraphale had a stab at a hellish miracle and willed the clouds to thin and the rain to trail off. The wellspring of his power felt different these days, but using it seemed to work about the same. The sun peeked out as he and Crowley took their places amid a little cluster of other individual marchers and began.

Aziraphale’s sign had each letter filled in with a rainbow, and read “God is Love, Love is Love,” which had gotten him quite a look from Crowley.

“Bringing God into this, really? After everything with Heaven?”

“Heaven isn’t God, my dear. I don’t like Heaven one bit, but I still do believe in Her. I still believe that She loves all Her creations. Including the queer ones. Including the Fallen ones as well.”

Crowley’s lips had thinned at that, pressed together on some no-doubt scathing words about the Almighty, but the sign remained, and now Aziraphale hoisted it cheerfully and strode along the street with the other marchers.

The streets were not exactly thronged along the march’s route. Most of those who really cared were out in the road, marching. But there were some observers, and many of them were full of smiles and cheerful waves.

Some, however, were not. Some had scowls, or stiff expressions of self-righteousness. Some had signs of their own, with messages of hate. Seeing them stirred something within Aziraphale. Said something had a few drops of shame in it—he knew what it was to think himself more righteous, and most of the hate-signs were about god and religion—but it mostly consisted of anger. How dare hate bring itself here, to this celebration of unfettered love? There weren’t many of the hateful along the route, but when the march reached its conclusion, there was a sizable knot of them just outside the festival’s gates.

A bored-looking policeman was standing between them and everyone else, and they seemed content enough to be so contained, but as Aziraphale approached, the policeman pulled the radio from his belt, said something into it, and then after giving the protesters with their hate-signs a stern look, dashed off into the festival proper. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to hear what had called the man off, but he felt everyone around him tense ever so slightly as one of the protesters took a step forward, grinning, as if eager to take this brief window to do something more than merely stand with a sign.

One of his fellows plucked at his sleeve, as if to hold him back, but it was a half-hearted gesture. The man didn’t quite step into the middle of the march, he stopped on the cub, short of the street, but he shouted out a slur-laden threat to the people passing mere feet away.

Aziraphale found himself hoping everyone would just ignore him, just push on into the celebration. The cop would be back soon enough, no doubt, and the opportunity for this to explode into violence would pass.

But just ahead of the fallen angel a couple of young women halted. One was a very short woman with a rough butch look—buzzed hair dyed bright purple, several tattoos, quite a few piercings—the other more conservatively dressed, with long hair and a neat pantsuit.

“What did you say?” said the shorter one, glaring. Her partner or friend or whatever else plucked at her sleeve too as she stepped forward, but it had no more effect than on the man.

“You heard me.” The man grinned, hands fisting, having found the fight he wanted. He was a head taller than the short woman, and twice as broad as the taller one. Aziraphale found his mouth twisting in disgust at the cowardly nature of it. The disgust lay atop the anger beneath, like an oil slick over water. He felt nearly ready to toss a match and watch it flame, consequences of a demon losing his temper amid a crowd be damned. The short young woman was being reckless, yet Aziraphale knew exactly why she’d halted, why she’d called the bigot out on his words, for he was ready to be reckless himself.

It felt as though a lifetime of getting looks, of “poof” and “queer” and even less savory things flung at him, often for no reason whatsoever, though lately because he had dared to hold Crowley’s hand in public, was bubbling in him, and every bit of annoyance and aggravation and irritation had piled up to become something more.

The short woman’s tone suggested she felt much the same. “People like you have no business here. People like you don’t have the brain cells to understand what love is, or what God is.” The woman gestured at the man’s religiously-based sign. “Why don’t you go crawl back into the miserable slime pit that birthed you?”

Aziraphale shifted his grip on his own sign, his hands suddenly remembering what it felt like to wield a sword. The narrow bit of wood wouldn’t do much damage, but it would be better than nothing. He felt Crowley at his shoulder, but even without that support, Aziraphale was pretty sure he would have approached the confrontation anyway.

“You just need to get yourself a real man, sweetheart,” said the supposedly-godly bigot. “You’d leave her like that,” he snapped his fingers, “if you’d ever had a real man between your legs.”

“Next time I meet a real man, I’ll consider it,” said the woman with a sneer.

The bigot was close now, within arm’s reach of the woman, but so was Aziraphale. The man began to draw back a fist, and Aziraphale got an angle to poke the bigot with his sign, interrupting his swing. The man rounded on Aziraphale, lips pulled back from his teeth, mouth opening to deliver some further vileness, then froze as his eyes met the no-longer-angel’s.

Aziraphale felt a connection there. He’d felt it before, when people had soulfully stared into his eyes while confessing their troubles. He’d been able to trickle a little grace into them, then, to comfort them. He knew he could push power through his gaze now, but it wouldn’t be giving comfort. Not with the power he had these days.

With anger still bubbling inside him, just short of a violence that went far beyond a minor curse, Aziraphale did so, and the man stepped back in sudden terror as just a hint of hellfire licked hungry tongues into his mind. He wrenched his eyes away from Aziraphale’s ice-cold, slitted gaze and was caught again by Crowley, standing at Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley still had his shades up, but he snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale felt the curse surge across the space between demon and human.

The man took another step back, tripped on the curb, and fell on his ass.

“What’s all this?” The policeman returned just in time to see the protester go down.

The man on the ground said nothing. His gaze had gone unfocused and he was trembling violently.

“He tried to pick a fight,” said the taller woman, suddenly smiling. “Didn’t get a hit in, as this nice gentleman here blocked it with his sign.” She gestured at Aziraphale. “But he was shouting some very nasty things and he did definitely take a swing at my girlfriend. Then he tripped. None of us touched him.”

The policeman’s gaze swept across the quartet, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly at Aziraphale and Crowley, then lowering. “Right then. You there, get up and get back to your zone. I explained it to your lot very clearly earlier, you’re not to be in the street.”

The man still stared, sitting in shock.

“He just fell, nothing else?” The policeman turned back, looking puzzled.

“Nothing else,” said the Aziraphale.

“Might be having some kind of fit,” suggested Crowley. “Better have his mates cart him off to the hospital.”

The cop smiled at that, no doubt seeing less work for him if some of the protesters buggered off to take care of their fallen comrade. “Excellent notion. You there!” He headed for the rest of the hate-sign bearers, leaving the two couples behind.

“Thanks for the save,” said the shorter woman, as they started to make their way the few remaining yards to the festival. “I’d have held my own until the cop got here, once he took the first swing, and I’d have liked to see him hauled away in cuffs, but I suppose I’d rather go enjoy the festival than hang around giving statements to the police all day.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Aziraphale.

“Did you give him the evil eye or something?” asked the taller woman curiously. “You’ve got the eyes for it.” Aziraphale considered a little miracle to make her forget his eyes, but then the woman said, “The contacts don’t really match the ‘absent-minded-professor’ look, but they suit you somehow.”

So he merely said “Why thank you my dear,” with a smile. “And if anyone ever deserved the evil eye, that fellow did.”

“I gave him fleas,” murmured Crowley under his breath, so just Aziraphale heard, and the former angel couldn’t help himself, he started to laugh. 

“I suppose it’s nice to return to the classics,” he said to Crowley. His anger melted away, and he hardly minded the way the crowd avoided them as he and Crowley finally stepped into the festival proper. Feeling almost chipper, in fact, he took in the various booths and displays, then clapped his hands in delight.

“Oh look, there’s a falafel booth. It’s been ages since I’ve had falafel! They wouldn’t have it be the theme of the whole booth if they didn’t do it well, I would think. Come on, let’s get some. And then of course we should go see Anathema’s booth.6 It’s going to be such fun!”

Crowley only smiled his usual indulgent smile, but he took Aziraphale’s hand and let himself be towed over to get food he wouldn’t eat, and he didn’t let go until the arrival of the former angel’s falafel made it necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. The agender flag. Back
> 
> 5\. An eight-color rainbow was the original gay pride flag, and each color stood for something specific. A seven color variation was later adopted due to the difficulty of getting the correct hot pink fabric for the first stripe, and eventually, of course, people began using the more standard six-color rainbow as a gay flag, but the imprecision and loss of meaning of the six color flag always mildly annoyed Aziraphale, so he very much preferred the original eight color flag. Back
> 
> 6\. Anathema Device didn’t consider herself to be queer, but she was quite definitely the sort of person who was firmly attached to the gay rights movement, and loved a good Pride festival. She had gotten a booth where she could promote her occult work as queer-friendly, and was doing palm readings. Palm readings were, of course, complete nonsense, but people expected them at an event like this, and despite being the real thing, Anathema had picked up a few of the skills employed by various charlatans. It saved quite a lot of fuss sometimes to give people what they expected instead of what they’d asked for.Back
> 
> \-----
> 
> I could write some kind of essay about the ways I think Crowley might interact with gender and sexuality. I've written some things on that and related topics already, though, so for now I'll pass. If you want to read those, you can check out [The Pleasures of the Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19552492) in which Crowley is something at least adjacent to asexual, and [Private Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059798) in which Aziraphale identifies as masculine genderqueer.


	8. Chapter 8

They reeled arm in arm out of the festival, laughing. Aziraphale was stuffed to the gills and had gotten his palm read, among other things. Crowley had only tasted bits of the various food on offer, but even he’d gotten enough to make nearly a full meal, and they’d both indulged themselves during frequent trips to the beer tent.

“Come back to my place for a nightcap?” offered Crowley as they approached the Bentley.

Aziraphale heard something more serious in Crowley’s voice than the offer seemed to warrant, and he glanced over. Crowley’s shaded eyes revealed little, but Aziraphale wondered. They’d been feeling their way into what it meant to be able to touch. The one kiss hadn’t been repeated, but Aziraphale knew both that he’d welcome more—more kisses and more than kisses—if Crowley wanted, and that he would be happy with what they had now if Crowley didn’t want more. That made it tempting to just coast along, to not try anything new. Nightcaps were hardly new, but they’d always been at the bookshop before, never at Crowley’s.

Well, he’d just told himself that he’d welcome more, so he was hardly going to reject whatever “more” was being offered now, was he? That made things quite simple. “That sounds delightful, my dear.”

They settled in on Crowley’s couch, glasses in hand, and Crowley immediately draped himself across Aziraphale, finding a position that must be comfortable, though it looked quite ungainly and awkward. He tossed back the quite nice old brandy he’d poured for them with a contented sigh, which Aziraphale echoed, though he only sipped his own drink.

“This is nice,” said Crowley.

“It rather is,” replied Aziraphale.

“How’s the molt going?”

“Nearly done, I think,” said Aziraphale. The old feathers were all gone, of course, but the new ones were still coming in. They’d all sprouted at once after Crowley had plucked the white ones out, and all the little coverts were fully grown, but the final secondaries weren’t quite done, or hadn’t been as of yesterday, at least. “I haven’t looked yet today.”

“Pop ‘em out and let me have a look.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then said, “If you insist.”

“I do. Come on, angel.”

With a wry shake of his head, Aziraphale manifested his wings. They were no longer piebald or patchy, but were sleek, squid-ink black, just this side of the pure color. Where the primaries and secondaries met were the final pinfeathers, two on each wing, and eying the length of them, Aziraphale thought they might both be done growing now.

“Looks good. Just need to fluff up those last few there.” The demon gave Aziraphale and the couch a thoughtful look, then said, “Not really room there for a proper grooming. You can sit on the rug, or we can go back to my bedroom? Just to groom your wings.” Crowley’s cheeks were flushed, and Aziraphale felt a hint of heat in his own, but he nodded.

“Sounds lovely.”

Crowley’s bedroom was huge, and as Aziraphale stepped into it with wings half-furled, he had a sudden suspicion about why. Spreading them to their full extent, he found they were just short of touching the walls, and he sighed happily, flexing and stretching them. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“Sit down here and I’ll make it even nicer, angel,” said Crowley, with a suggestive little eyebrow waggle.

Aziraphale laughed and sat down on the bed. Crowley, of course, only sat behind him and stroked a hand along one wing. “Looks pretty good. I think these last two are done, though, so they need to be fluffed up.”

Pinfeathers came in with the barbs in place, but they were slicked down to the shaft with a waxy coating. Birds stripped it off with their beaks. Angels used their fingers, and it worked just as well. It seemed demons did the same, for Crowley expertly began combing the wax from Aziraphale’s secondaries with a firm but gentle motion, and when it was all removed he fluffed up and smoothed out the barbs, until sleek, perfect feathers stood where awkward quills had been only minutes ago.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but relax into the touch. Having his wings preened was lovely. Crowley seemed to feel the same about doing the preening, for he didn’t halt once the secondaries were all set to rights, but kept combing his fingers through Aziraphale’s feathers. They didn’t need it, since they were all fresh and new, and none were damaged or disarrayed yet, but he did all the same, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to complain.

“Never been to a Pride march before,” said Crowley as he worked. “Might go more often if I get to cause trouble like that. Beer tent had some pretty good options too. That nice little Belgian was a treat.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I don’t know that defusing a fight really counts as ‘causing trouble.’” He frowned faintly as he thought more about it. “Though I suppose we’d have caused quite a lot of trouble if that fellow hadn’t backed down when I put the whammy on him.”

“Some humans can resist the evil eye, yeah. Though it felt like you put some real juice behind it, angel.”

“I was so _angry,_” responded Aziraphale, still frowning.

“Ticking wrath off your little list?”

“Hah. Maybe.” Aziraphale considered that. “It wasn’t anything I haven’t felt before, to be honest. But on previous occasions when I was deeply angry, I pushed it down. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ you know. It wouldn’t be proper to act in anger. I was meant to light people’s lives, not curse the wicked. And yet…” He trailed off, turning the thought around in his head. It was a strange sort of thought.

“Hmm?”

“Well, I _did_ light a couple of lives today. Those two young women. They were pleased at what I’d done. It seems odd to do good through a curse. I suppose, though, if God can curse people and still remain good, perhaps I can as well.”

“Demons aren’t supposed to be good, ang—Aziraphale.” Crowley scowled.

Aziraphale laughed. “Demons aren’t supposed to do a great many things which I have noticed you doing over the years. Angels aren’t supposed to do some things I quite definitely did before my Fall. I suspect that the rules our former sides profess aren’t necessarily valid rules.”

Crowley just shrugged and continued his grooming, and Aziraphale let his eyes half close as he relaxed back into it. He felt as though he might purr, even in human form.

“How’ssat?” said Crowley once he’d groomed every feather.

Aziraphale let out a deep, contented sigh. “Simply lovely, my dear. Thank you.” He stretched his wings to their fullest extent with a luxurious groan, then folded them in again. Turning around, he found Crowley staring at him, with an expression Aziraphale couldn’t quite categorize on his face. It had something of want in it, so Aziraphale said, “Shall I return the favor?”

Crowley’s expression instantly became guarded, and he gave a little shrug that was no doubt meant to be casual, but didn’t manage it at all. “Eh, you don’t have to, angel.”

“I’d like to. I’d like to see your wings.”

“They’re not very pretty, they’re—” Crowley came to a sudden halt, and his cheeks flushed.

Aziraphale chuckled. “You were about to say they’re too black to be as pretty as mine, weren’t you?”

“Of course not,” said Crowley, but his flush deepened.

With a smile that was more than a little wicked, Aziraphale said, “It seems I’ve found another nice thing about being a demon. It quite robs you of your silly urge towards self-denigration.”

Crowley let out an indistinct grunt and wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. His cheeks were still quite pink.

“Come now, I do want to see your wings. I almost never get to, and I’ve _always_ thought they were lovely, right from the first.”

Crowley’s blush intensified, and he muttered something vague and grumpy under his breath, but his wings popped into existence behind him and he unfurled them willingly enough.

They were a deep, absolute black, the highlights showing blue. “Lovely,” murmured Aziraphale with a smile. To be honest, his own dark sepia wings seemed rather drab next to Crowley’s glossy raven’s black, and he found himself idly considering writing a poem about the color. He mostly confined himself to reading, but he’d penned a few things over the centuries, and Crowley had been the secret subject of rather a lot of them.

Aziraphale shook off that thought and folded his own wings in close, then urged Crowley down onto the bed before settling in behind him. Crowley’s wings were in a bit of a state, and Aziraphale tutted as he began plucking out hopelessly broken feathers. He could feel the way Crowley’s wings were tensed, his back muscles taut, as Aziraphale began, but slowly he started to relax.

By the time Aziraphale had gotten all the truly terrible feathers plucked and was combing the merely bedraggled ones into order Crowley was nearly limp, eyes closed, little involuntary sounds of pleasure escaping him whenever Aziraphale smoothed a particularly ragged and no doubt itchy patch of feathers.

“There,” he finally said, smoothing one last little scapular. He gave in to the urge and bent to kiss just between Crowley’s wings. Crowley stiffened, so Aziraphale didn’t do anything more, though in the back of his mind there was a rather incoherent jumble of thoughts, consisting of all the racier bits of classic literature clustered around the realization that lust was one of the sins he would have to tick off if he were to actually do all seven. He didn’t feel lust now, exactly, he hadn’t made the effort to have the physical parts for that, but there was a longing within him that could very easily transmute itself. 

He was hardly going to push that on Crowley if Crowley wasn’t interested, though. So he only remained where he was, kneeling behind Crowley on the bed. 

With a soft sigh Crowley leaned back, settling more or less into Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale shifted his knees apart to accommodate Crowley, and allowed himself the luxury of stroking Crowley’s hair as he laid his head against Aziraphale’s chest.

That got a moment of tension, but only a moment before Crowley relaxed again. He shifted, and folded his wings into nonexistence, before curling himself up in Aziraphale’s lap as if Crowley were the cat and not the former angel. Though Aziraphale supposed that snakes certainly curled up as well. He smiled and continued to stroke Crowley’s hair.

Aziraphale’s wings were black, his eyes slit, his whole being changed. He’d Fallen, lost his grace, and learned to sin. He should have been a miserable ball of guilt and loss, and yet in this moment he was more content and comfortable than he’d ever been in all the eternities he’d spent in Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter: No sins, just a little cute wing-fluff. :3 (I try my best to have accurate wing facts, though I know I'm not perfect. I'm not a falconer. But I have worked with real birds a little, and I have drawn lots of them. I get annoyed at blatantly stupid wing things in Good Omens fics. At least take a brief glance at an actual bird before writing wing-centered stuff?)
> 
> P.S. I know I am teasing some of you horribly with not having lust come up yet. Guess which chapter that's going to be in... I'm making you wait for it. Mwa ha ha ha.


	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale stared at the stack of paperwork in front of him. He was perched on the edge of his couch, with the papers set on an end table he’d pulled around. This was because Crowley was curled around him like a backrest, and he hadn’t wanted to move to his desk and leave that wonderful contact. Crowley’s eyes were closed, and his breathing even, so he might be asleep, too, and disturbing him would be a shame. But the paperwork did need doing. 

The very first space on the very first page read “Name, Demonic”. The line after that, and the whole rest of the page, was slanted, as if it had been photocopied with the original askew. Though how it had all managed to be askew from the first few words he had no idea.

He pondered that space for a while. Putting “Aziraphale” in there seemed a bit wrong. The “ale” bit was a slight linguistic meander from the original “ael” which meant “God.” Could a demon have “God” in their name? He was Fallen now, surely that was wrong. Although he hadn’t given up on God, exactly. He frowned. He could just go by Azira, perhaps. Or…

Aziraphale laughed suddenly. He was probably already okay on the “God” front, since he had “ale” rather than “ael”, but just one more little change, just as inaudible when said out loud, was completely irresistible now that he’d thought of it.

He always _had_ liked wordplay.7 And it would make Crowley groan, no doubt, which was worth it all by itself. Not to mention the way it felt like thumbing his nose at Heaven, and at all his own fears, to embrace the thing that had so long terrified him by putting it into his very name. 

So with a wicked grin, he took his expensive new pen and wrote, “Azirafell” on the first line.

Half an hour later his grin had vanished entirely, replaced by a frustrated scowl. Unable to hold back, he finally nudged Crowley with his elbow. “Crowley? Crowley! Why does this form want my social security number? I’m not an American, I’m a bloody ang—demon, I don’t have a social security number. None of the Fallen could possibly have a social security number. This is pointless.”

“Hell’s the point,” mumbled Crowley, adding a huge yawn after, followed by a stretch. Then he re-curled himself around Azirafell’s back and hips. “It’s meant to be irritating and irrational. Just fill in any old thing on the ones like that, I don’t think anybody actually reads ‘em anyway. It’s not like you’re applying to be a demon. They can’t reject you back up to Heaven, it doesn’t work that way.”

Azirafell scowled at the page. This one wasn’t crooked, but all the text was blurry and slightly purple, as if it had been copied via carbon-copy paper. “What happens if I don’t fill it out at all, then?”

Crowley gave a shrug that Azriafell felt rather than saw. “Dunno. Beez gets pissed at you?”

“I am rather certain that Beelzebub is already pissed at me. They certainly seemed cross enough with you when I was down there for your trial. It’s rather likely they’re cross with me as well, all things considered.”

“You can try not filling it out, I s’pose,” said Crowley drowsily. “I never did, but only ‘cause they didn’t have the forms back when. Forms took a bit for Hell to figure out, humans got there ahead of us.”

“Humans invented writing in order to fill out forms, I am fairly certain,” said Azirafell with a chuckle. “I remember thinking that cuneiform had a lot of potential, and it was a shame it was mostly tallies of grain taxes and all that. Though I suppose they did get around to writing down other things fairly quickly. But in any case, this form is driving me to distraction. I’ll finish it later.” He knew, even as he said it, that he probably wouldn’t. Not unless Lucifer turned up asking after it, or something of the sort. He’d never liked Heavenly paperwork either, and that was merely boring, not deliberately antagonistic.

Azirafell tucked the paperwork back into its envelope and leaned back against Crowley with a sigh. “I suppose, if I’m not filling out forms, I should open the bookshop. It’s been closed more often than open of late.”

“You should just turn it into a library. You hardly ever sell a thing.”

“I do so,” said Azirafell, putting on a mock-offended expression. “I sell books to humans who truly appreciate them. And I sell some of the less pristine editions, and second printings and so on.”

“Just not your precious first editions, hmm?”

“Precisely. In any case, being a library would be worse, I’d have to let people take the books home and ruin them, and then take them back after that shameful treatment. When I do let a book go, I’d rather not have my worst suspicions about its treatment confirmed.”

“Hah! Make it a museum, then? You have a few pieces that belong in one.”

“Somehow I doubt that a museum of books where you weren’t allowed to read them would be of much interest. People mostly don’t merely want to stare at a book’s cover. It’s not as though I’ve got the Book of Kells here, you know.”

“You’ve got a few of those old illuminations, I’ve seen them.”

“Just ones I did myself back in my own scriptorium days, they’re nothing special.” Azirafell gave Crowley a fond pat. “But I might as well go open up for today, at least.”

He didn’t tidy the shop, as such. The dust and clutter were not only part of his natural habitat, they were also a way to gently discourage customers who didn’t really mean it. He was not averse to selling a book to somebody who deserved to own it, but casual browsers were not welcome, and his arcane organizational system meant it took effort to find anything, especially as Azirafell himself didn’t exactly engage in anything that could be called “customer service”. Asking where to find something specific would get a vague hand wave in response. Discussing the content of something specific, now, might sometimes yield the actual shelf it was located on. But you had to love it in order for the angel—former angel, he reminded himself—to give you even a chance of leaving the shop with it.

He unlocked the door and settled himself behind the register with a book of his own. A faint snore told him that Crowley had decided to stay on the back room couch and nap. That was a shame, he quite liked when the demon was about his shop. The hellish aura provided an extra layer of customer deterrent, further thinning out the ones who didn’t deserve a rare book. But Crowley himself rather deserved his sleep.

Azirafell’s wandering mind suddenly came to a halt, and a slow smile spread across his face just as the door jingled and a customer stepped in.

“Hello?” The young man peered around the shop.

“Welcome,” said Azirafell, smiling brightly, broadly, and with just a touch of fangs showing.

The young man’s eyes went wide, and he muttered, “Uh, wrong shop,” and was out the door so fast he nearly tripped over the steps outside.

“How delightful,” murmured Azirafell.

He let Crowley nap all day long, and he didn’t sell a single book.8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. He _liked_ wordplay. This did not mean he was any _good_ at wordplay. Back
> 
> 8\. Aziraphale’s Yelp reviews had always been atrocious, but after his Fall there was a sharp uptick in reviews using words like “creepy”, “uncanny” and “terrifying” in regards to the proprietor and the mood of the shop in general. Back
> 
> \-----
> 
> A short one today, one final big one with all the _fun_ things you might be expecting (and also Gabriel, who tries very hard to be no fun at all, but may not succeed this time) in it tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

Azirafell was bored.

It was, admittedly, a familiar condition. Heaven had never given him all _that_ many assignments. There had been a general standing order to “do good”, but he’d had long stretches with nothing much in them at times. Of course now he could fill much of those stretches with Crowley, and it seemed that Hell wasn’t giving Crowley—or Azirafell, for that matter—any assignments either. But however much you may love someone, there’s really only so much entertainment to be gotten out of cuddling, and after cuddling for hours on end, day after day, Azirafell was more than willing to consider other pursuits.

He did, of course, still want to cuddle, it was only that an hour or two a day would probably suffice, in between other activities.

On the topic of other activities, he had rather expected Crowley to have come on harder than he had so far. He knew perfectly well that Crowley had dallied with mortals before, so it wasn’t as though the other demon wasn’t interested in sexual pursuits. Yet Crowley hadn’t started anything, and had in fact seemed to pull away from a few of Azirafell’s tentative overtures, so perhaps Crowley wasn’t interested in sex when it wasn’t on the job.

As much as Azirafell had entertained certain fantasies about romancing and bedding Crowley if they could only touch, he was hardly going to waste away from lack of sex himself. His rare liaisons with humanity had been centuries apart, so it wasn’t as if he had a libido as such. It was only that sex could be such a beautiful expression of closeness and affection, and the person he felt the most such things towards was definitely Crowley.

But if sex was off the table, and having reached the limits of cuddling all day, Azirafell was ready to find some other source of amusement, however trivial or temporary.

His usual go-to was books, of course. Reading books, seeking out new books, admiring books he didn’t own…

Now there was an idea. Azirafell mentally flipped through the seven deadly sins. He’d managed gluttony, sloth, pride, greed, and wrath. Admittedly sloth could use revisiting—sleeping because he was in pain wasn’t _really_ all that slothful—but he was too restless to sleep right now. That left lust, probably not an option, and envy.

Envy would be just perfect.

He strode into the back room where Crowley was lounging on his couch half-asleep yet again. Crowley had barely left the bookshop since Azirafell had started Falling. He nipped back to his apartment now and again to water—and shout at—his plants, but he was doing all his sleeping sprawled on the back room couch. Not for the first time Azirafell considered trying to miracle up an upstairs flat with an actual bedroom, but for now he only prodded Crowley’s shoulder and said, “How do you feel about an outing, my dear?”

Crowley blinked drowsily up at him for a moment, them stretched with a smile. “Feeling peckish?”

“I was thinking of dinner somewhere nice afterwards, but I wanted to visit the British Library. I haven’t been in years.”

Crowley blinked. “The last time you were there you spent the whole time getting drool on the rare book cases, grousing about how Upstairs was too likely to check in on a miracle and you couldn’t justify using one to steal the books. Planning a heist?”

Azirafell felt his ears heating, but he shook his head. “I do enjoy going, even if I do also get…envious of their collection. Perhaps I could justify taking just one now? Hell doesn’t seem to account for miracles quite like Heaven does.” Azirafell cleared his throat. “But no, the point is to do something besides rattle about in the bookshop, and to, well…”

“To tick envy off of your little list, hmm? After that you’ll have what, pride and lust left?”

“No, I checked pride off when I was showing you my feline forms. I was much too pleased with how handsome they are.” Azirafell grinned, still flushed but in a much more pleasant way.

“They quite certainly are. But in that case it’s certainly high time you indulged in some envy.” He left the topic of lust unmentioned, and Azirafell wasn’t sure if he was grateful to be spared further blushes or sad to not have a chance to discuss how Crowley felt about such things.

“It should be a nice break from the usual,” he said, unable to bring himself to bring it up either just now. “So, care to accompany me?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The British Library was not exactly like the typical public library, so there were no checkout desks or public access computers. The library’s collection was, in fact, only available to those who had properly applied for a reading pass in advance, but a minor demonic miracle easily supplied the necessary credentials to give Azirafell and Crowley full access.

But before they’d even gotten that far the pair were distracted for some time by an exhibit of Da Vinci’s notebooks. Crowley got more than a little melancholic looking over them; Azirafell knew he missed his old friend, even after all this time, but he prodded his fellow demon into telling amusing stories about things the curators would no doubt have given their left nuts to know, which broke the mood nicely, and they were both smiling when they finally moved on.

Installed in a reading room, and with the books he wanted to look at miraculously already ready for him, Azirafell sighed as he delicately turned the first page of his first selection.

“What is it you’re reading?” asked Crowley, lounging in the chair beside Azirafell in a way that the chair had probably never experienced before, given the library’s usual serious scholarly visitors. He probably should have been drawing stares from the other patrons, or from the librarians, but of course nobody noticed, since Crowley didn’t want them to.

“A rather nicely illustrated early edition of _Fanny Hill_.”

Crowley blinked. “You’re in the place that has one of the best collections of illuminated bibles and historical texts in the entire world and you’re reading _porn?_”

“My own collection is rather replete with bibles, but extremely lacking in the matter of erotica,” said Azirafell, almost primly. “And _Fanny Hill_ is very much a classic. It was the first proper erotic novel written in English, you know.”

“I don’t really read, angel.”

“I could read some to you, if you like?” Azirafell’s eyes twinkled.

“Ah…” To Azriafell’s delight, Crowley actually blushed.

Azirafell grinned and pushed on. “_Fanny Hill_ is considered particularly interesting for being a rare example of an early erotic novel in which a woman engages in sexual behavior and is not divinely punished by it. Quite a few of racier tales from that era kept themselves appropriately ‘moral’ by having everyone—but the women in particular, of course—suffer for their sins afterward. But Fanny gets herself a quite nice ending in the finish, despite what people at the time expected. I can rather relate.”

Crowley’s eyes softened, and he put his hand over Azirafell’s where it lay on the table before them.

Azirafell willingly let Crowley interlace their fingers, enjoying the moment. Though the probably demonic part of him that Crowley had called “just enough of a bastard” reared its head a moment later and he said, turning another page with his free hand, “Did you know that this is one of the editions that retains the homoerotic depiction of anal sex between two boys? Quite a few later editions omit it, although they include all the racy lesbian bits. Prudery always does seem to be a bit uneven between the sexes. It’s quite a shame, I’m rather partial to male on male pairings, for some peculiar reason.”

“Angel!” Crowley’s voice was strangled.

Azirafell tried to not laugh too hard, given that a library was hardly the place for it, but he couldn’t keep the laughter back entirely. “I am quite fond of the aesthetics of the male body. Or the man-shaped body, as the case may be.”

“Is this…” Crowley seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “Is this your way of coming on to me? With Victorian erotica?”

“Georgian, my dear. Fanny Hill is from the mid eighteen hundreds.”

“Georgian, whatever.” Azirafell could tell Crowley was rolling his eyes behind his shades.

Azirafell smiled gently and dared to begin running his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand. He could see the tension that filled the demon as he did, and he almost sighed. Crowley was obviously uncomfortable. Still, Azirafell couldn’t resist lingering just a moment longer. He’d dreamed for so long of touching Crowley, and though his fantasies had ranged far and wide, they had so often centered on simply this, on their hands twined together and the cool feel of Crowley’s skin beneath his fingers.

As Azirafell’s caress continued, though, Crowley said, “You _are_ aren’t you?” His voice was almost wondering, and he straightened in his chair and pulled his shades off to stare at Azirafell.

Now it was Azirafell’s turn to blink owlishly at his fellow demon. “I am? I am what?”

“You _actually_ are. Coming on to me. With bloody _Fanny Hill._”

“Well… Perhaps just a little. Are my…advances welcome? You seem a bit tense…”

“Oh _angel._” Crowley turned more fully towards him, his other hand reaching out to brush Azirafell’s cheek. “I’m tense because the moment you touch me like that I have the urge to jump on you and ravish you on the spot, and it’s all I can do to hold it back.”

“Oh. _Oh!_” Azirafell felt his heart suddenly singing. Crowley was interested! That was the best thing since becoming able to touch without pain. Cuddling had been sweet, but the thought of having _more_ was even sweeter. “Well, ah, this is hardly the place for it…”

“I could miracle it so that nobody would notice.” Crowley’s voice was eager, almost desperate, and only the tiniest bit joking. “I’d think you’d like doing it amid all these rare old books.”

Azirafell snorted. “I am _not_ having sex with you for the first time in the middle of the British Library.” He smiled wickedly and added, “Maybe later, when we start to get bored and need to mix it up. Right now, though, I think dear Fanny can take care of herself, and you and I should be getting back home.”

Crowley probably set some all-new city speed records for the Bentley as they drove back to the bookshop, and Azirafell kept his hand on Crowley’s knee the whole way there. If he hadn’t very much wanted Crowley’s attention on the road he probably would have slid his hand up and done quite a lot more, but he didn’t fancy being discorporated. He now knew that Hell’s paperwork was even worse than Heaven’s, after all.

“I’m sorry for not realizing your interest sooner, my dear,” said Azirafell as they drove.

“I should have said something. I was only nervous about going too fast for you again. I figured we’ve got all the time in the world now, and there was nothing wrong with taking it slow.”

“No, I suppose there’s not, but on the other hand I’ve waited for six thousand years to get my hands on you, and there’s no reason to wait now, is there?”

“None I can think of,” said Crowley. Then, “What, you’ve wanted me for six thousand years?”

“Oh, not exactly. I’ve thought you were handsome as anything for that long, and fascinating in all kinds of ways, but the actual, ah, sexual thoughts started sometime around Rome.” Azirafell felt himself flushing at the memory. “I saw you at an orgy once, did you know that? I was so dreadfully jealous of the mortals there. I couldn’t even _touch_ you and they were getting to do such delightful things to you. It was deeply unfair.”

“_You_ were at a Roman orgy?” Crowley glanced away from the road to give Azirafell an incredulous look, which was alarming enough to make Azirafell grip Crowley’s knee rather harder than was likely to be romantic.

“I was assigned to make one of the senators feel guilty enough about it to reform,” said Azirafell with a shake of his head. “I think I ended up doing shockingly well by channeling my own guilt at the thoughts I had looking at you. You looked…” Azirafell trailed off, unable to sum up the sight of Crowley in the throes of passion. Perhaps, if he were very, very lucky, he’d be able to find words for it when he saw it again shortly, which he was very much hoping to do.

Just then the Bentley pulled up in front of the bookshop. Crowley came around and got the door for Azirafell, as if they’d been on a date. Azirafell took his arm, then frowned as he noticed that the bookshop lights were on. He was certain he’d turned them off before he left. Oh dear.

He pushed the door open—it was already unlocked—and was displeased but not exactly surprised to see Gabriel set down a dusty volume and turn around. “Aziraphale! Long time no see!”

Crowley’s fingers tightened on Azirafell’s arm, and he let out a soft hiss, eyes narrowed behind his shades. “I’ve got this,” murmured the former angel, not wanting Crowley to start a fight with an archangel.

Crowley hissed again, but let go of Azirafell’s arm and let him step forward.

“It’s Azira_fell_, actually,” he said with a small, dark smile.

A confused frown creased Gabriel’s face. “That’s what I said.”

Azirafell chuckled. “No, it’s not. But never mind. What brings you to my shop today?”

“I wanted to check up on some paperwork. The initial papers were properly filed in Heaven, but the final notification of severance hasn’t arrived from Hell.” His eyes flicked over Azirafell, taking in the darker tone of his clothing, settling on the cat-slit eyes. “Looks like it did get through to Earth, though.”

Azirafell narrowed his eyes, his tone hardening. “If you mean my Fall, why yes, it did.”

The frown vanished, and a broad, gloating smile spread across Gabriel’s face. “Excellent!” 

Azirafell didn’t have to turn around to know Crowley had a hateful snarl on, he could _feel_ the other demon glaring. His own mouth twitched upwards at the corner, though. So. “Papers were filed, you said. I don’t suppose I could ask just _who_ filed them?”

“Oh well, it’s my duty to make sure that proper rewards and proper punishments are meted out to those I’m responsible for.” The gloating grin was still in place.

“I see. And now, of course, you’ve come here to enjoy my suffering, I suppose. Typical. You’ve also managed to annoyingly delay my planned evening too. I really hadn’t expected to be cock-blocked by my former boss tonight.” Azirafell put in the minor crudity quite deliberately, and was rewarded by a flinch and an expression of disgust that replaced the smug grin on Gabriel’s face.

“What, you and _him?_” Gabriel looked at Crowley with a sneer.

Crowley bristled, but didn’t say anything.

“Why yes. One of the many benefits of my Fall.” Azirafell’s marginal smile broadened. “I suppose I should thank you. I’ve always been quite fond of earthly pleasures, you know, and being a demon has freed me up to enjoy ever so many more of them, including all the _fun_ sexual ones.” Azirafell’s smile spread further, grew positively lascivious.

Gabriel recoiled. “That’s disgusting.”

“You should try it some time,” broke in Crowley finally, wiggling his eyebrows outrageously. “It’s quite the experience. Though you’re not my type, even without all the holy burning and such.”

“And here I thought you liked angels, my dear,” said Azirafell teasingly.

“Satan, no.” Crowley sounded nearly as disgusted as Gabriel looked, though Azirafell knew him well enough to know he was poking fun. “I liked you in spite of the angel business, not because of it. You’re far too sexy to be a proper angel, my angel.”

Gabriel was actually blushing now, as well as looking utterly appalled. Azirafell thought he’d never had so much fun in Gabriel’s presence in all his eternal life. “Really I must thank you, Gabriel. If you hadn’t put in to have me Fall, I’d be missing out on so much.”

“It’s supposed to be a fucking punishment!” snapped Gabriel finally. “Didn’t it hurt? Doesn’t being cut off from the grace of God make your soul want to wither away?”

Azirafell put on a gentle, saintly smile. “Oh Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. You truly don’t understand, do you? Of course it hurt. But much as I do miss the grace of God, it’s a very distant thing these days, isn’t it? Meanwhile love—and lust too, which really _is_ quite fun—are right here.” He cast a knowing glance over his shoulder at Crowley, then looked back at Gabriel. “But you’re not capable of understanding love, are you?”

“I’m an _angel_, I’m a being of pure love,” snapped Gabriel, irritably.

Azirafell just shook his head sadly. “Not capable of understanding love at all. It’s tragic.”

“So is the way I’m missing out on your devastatingly sexy body right now, angel,” said Crowley. “Can we hurry this along?”

Gabriel shuddered. Both demons grinned. Gabriel shook himself and scowled. “Well… Since the paperwork hasn’t been properly filed, we _could_ possibly reinstate you, Aziraphale,” he said.

Azirafell snorted. “Gabriel, I wouldn’t go back to Heaven unless God herself popped out of a burning bush and delivered an engraved invitation, and even then I’d need a few specific guarantees first. Now, why don’t you fuck off back to Heaven so that my love and I can fuck already? I’ll file the proper paperwork eventually so your books can all be sorted out, I promise.”

Gabriel hesitated, looking shocked and confused and also more than a little angry. Crowley slunk up behind Azirafell and draped his arms over him, nibbling his ear. Azirafell let his head tip back and made a soft but quite clear and quite lewd noise of appreciation.

“Ugh. Fine, fine, I’m going.” Gabriel snapped his fingers and vanished in a flash of light, leaving an air of ozone and palpable disgust behind him.

Crowley waved a hand. “Blech. The stench of him has nearly ruined the mood.”

“Well, why don’t we go to my bedroom and get away from it?”

Crowley blinked. “I thought you didn’t have a bedroom.”

“I didn’t. Past tense.” Azirafell grinned.

Crowley laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

Azirafell’s newly-miracled bedroom was a small, cozy space, with the tartan-quilted bed taking up most of it. There were bookshelves on the walls—though they held no books yet, he wasn’t going to just miracle up _books_—and pale blue curtains were drawn over a bay window with a reading nook built into it.

He smiled in satisfaction on seeing that it had come out right, but Azirafell wasted no further attention on the room, all his attention was on Crowley. He pushed the lanky demon up against the bed and kissed him soundly, reveling in the little gasp of pleased shock that escaped Crowley. It was so wonderful. He’d been content with what they had, as he might have been content with a gourmet dinner he’d ordered, but having this with Crowley, this love and lust blended, was like that little something extra, sent on the house from the kitchen, just because the chef knew and appreciated him. Crowley knew and appreciated and wanted him, and it was more than he could possibly have hoped for.

Azirafell’s tongue demanded access to Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley gave it willingly, parting his lips and meeting it with his own interestingly forked tongue. Crowley’s arms were tight around Azirafell, his hands wandering freely, the cool fingers good against Azirafell’s heated skin when they slipped beneath his shirt.

Crowley certainly knew what he was doing, which Azirafell didn’t mind at all. He knew what he was doing too, and his mind was full of plans for what he might do to and with his dearest love. And yet…

“I hope it doesn’t bother you that you aren’t my first, my darling,” said Azirafell, breaking off the kiss to murmur the nervous question into the air. He regretted it as soon as he spoke, he probably should not have brought up past lovers.

“You don’t mind that you’re not _my_ first.” Crowley’s expression was amused, though his cheeks were still flushed.

“No, not at all.” Azirafell couldn’t keep from smiling contentedly. “I minded when I couldn’t be with you, when I could do nothing but envy those others. I suppose I don’t need to check _that_ sin off, I did so long, long ago. I don’t mind now.”

“I don’t mind either. Though you know that’s why I never liked Wilde’s poems. Bloody git got to kiss you before I did.”

Azirafell laughed, then kissed Crowley again, pushing him back down onto the bed as he did. There followed a great deal of hurried clothing removal, with much awkwardness and laughter, but also much eager touching as skin was revealed.

“I’ll refrain from reciting Wilde at you in bed,” Azirafell murmured, and pressed their bodies together, skin to skin, relishing the sound of Crowley’s helpless, undone moan. _He_ had done that to his demon love. Not some Roman senator, not some mortal lover, but Azirafell himself.

The feel of Crowley as they found how their bodies might fit together was beyond amazing. Azirafell felt his blood rushing with it, his mind singing with it, his very soul crying, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ and _more, more more._ His wings came out without him even meaning to manifest them; the things that were body and soul both mantling over Crowley.

Crowley’s wings appeared in turn, his jet feathers brushing Azirafell’s inky plumage, wings pressing close, seeking that _more_ that rushed through Aziafell’s veins. Their feathers met and their natures met and their bodies met, and everything began to blur, to blend, to mingle together.

Crowley was within Azirafell, joined to him, part of him, his body within but his soul too, for the cry of _I love you_ that echoed in Azirafell’s being was answered with _Yes, I love you, I’ve always loved you, since Eden I’ve been yours, my angel, my demon, my love._

_Wherefore, they are no more twain, but one flesh._ They were, the thing between them uniting them, bodies seeking an ancient rhythm, souls finding its answer.

_Oh don’t quote the Bible at me while we’re fucking, angel._

_It’s right, it’s good, it’s blessed; us two together, and I will if I want._ Pleasure spiraled upward between them, wild and wonderful, and Azirafell couldn’t help the poetry that spilled from him. _Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine. In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?_

_At least it’s not bloody scripture. But oh yes, angel. Oh yes, and yes I said yes I will Yes._

_Yes!_ both their souls cried together, and their bodies too, and they were perfectly one in bliss.

****

It was a very long time later when the tangle of dark feathers and pale limbs in Azirafell’s bed stirred.

“I must say,” said Azirafell, managing to be something close to coherent again at last, “that the whole thing about ‘not my first’ has proved completely nonsensical. That was nothing like having sex with a mortal.” He frowned and added, “Perhaps a bit like, since the bodily bits happened too, but…”

“‘S jusssst lovely,” said Crowley, drowsily content, relaxed enough to not mind the hissing. “All the you and me and usss and all that.”

“Indeed. Yet another reason to be glad I Fell, I believe, for trying to mingle our souls like that were I still an angel would probably have blown up the room.” He chuckled. “Would probably have blown up half of Soho, though I’ve no idea what ethereal explosions look like on the material plane, it hasn’t really come up.”

“I could make something come up,” said Crowley, his tone turning lecherous.

Azirafell laughed. “No you couldn’t. Not after _that_.”

“Well… Give me fifteen minutes?”

“Sounds delightful.” Azirafell grinned, wrapping arms and wings both around Crowley.

Crowley yawned and burrowed into Azirafell’s embrace. The way he was nuzzling at Azirafell’s chest did rather spark a few tentative tingles that suggested that round two might be looming on the horizon, but for now he was much too spent. Mere bodily exhaustion had nothing on what his soul had just been up to.

“Angel?” The voice was a bit muffled against Azirafell’s chest, but otherwise clear enough, and only mildly curious.

“Hmm?”

“Are you actually going to fill out that paperwork for Beelzebub and Gabriel? I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t, but I’m honestly a bit curious about what happens if you don’t. Always was full of questions, you know.”

Azirafell chuckled. “Oh, my dear Crowley. No, I won’t fill it out. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I refuse to even consider bothering with that load of complete bollocks. Maybe if the forms were sensible and useful, but as they are? No.”

“You lied to Gabriel, then.”

“Me? Lie to an archangel of the Lord?” Azirafell grinned, knowing that he was probably showing fangs. “Well of course I did. I’m a demon, aren’t I?”

Crowley let out a long, happy sigh that Azirafell felt as much as heard. “Oh, Hell yes you are. Best demon there’s ever been, if you ask me.”

“Why thank you. Encouraging me towards pride again, I see.” Azirafell nuzzled the top of Crowley’s head. Crowley didn’t reply, he only let out a contented murmur and started kissing his way across to Azirafell’s nipple, which he’d found was very sensitive.

Azirafell didn’t reply either, though not long after there was poetry again, he simply couldn’t help himself. Nor could he help when it came to the urge to use his feline fangs—it was so stupid that angels were expected to ignore their animal aspects, why was Heaven so pointlessly repressive?—on his demonic lover. He gave himself over once more to Crowley—himself in full, all that he was—and he got all that Crowley was in turn; serpentine and demonic and human and wonderful. It was a love that no angel could ever have allowed its like. A love that no mortal would have been capable of. A love that no other demon would have trusted or risked.

It was a love that was theirs and theirs alone, and it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! Hope it lived up to your expectations. It lived up to mine, I had _so_ much fun writing this last chapter! I had fun writing the whole thing. It was nice doing a less-angsty, more just fun and fluffy and slice of life-y sort of story. I mean, they're still both idiots, a bit, and there was a certain amount of suffering, but sometimes it's nice to have things just...work out.
> 
> Alas, this time I can't say "new fic soon" because I have nothing Good Omens-related even remotely ready to go. My muse has been focused on original fiction recently, and my work-ish "things I should write" slate is filled with commissions and stuff for patrons and so on. I don't know when I'll get back to Good Omens. I'm sure I will, I have tons more ideas! I just can't make any specific promises.
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for reading, and for leaving such nice comments on this and my other GO fics. I haven't been replying as much as I'd like, but I do read and appreciate every single one. They very often make my day when I'm down.
> 
> If you'd like to see me talk about writing, my works in progress, other creative endeavors, and my life in general, check out [my Dreamwidth blog](https://bladespark.dreamwidth.org/) or my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bladespark).


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